Dishonest Honesty
by julielinx
Summary: Sam didn't get the appeal to stripping down to nothing and panting over somebody. But for the last couple months, she'd gotten it into her head that there had to be something to it. Why else would Dean have spent the last five years pursuing sex with such single mindedness? Or - wherein teenage girl!Sam almost loses her virginity.
1. Shared Breath

Dean had ditched her for the night, so she didn't even have to sneak out of the skeezy motel room where their father abandoned them. Not that Dean would have stopped her from going to the party. He probably would have tagged along and ended up sleeping with a couple of her classmates. He'd been like that since he hit puberty. Sam was well and truly sick of all the giggling girls that knew what her brother's dick looked like.

She didn't get the appeal of stripping down to nothing and panting over somebody. But for the last couple of months she'd gotten it into her head that there had to be something to it. Why else would her brother have spent the last five years pursuing it with such single mindedness?

She picked a kid in her class named Ben. He was smart, athletic, and a strange mix of shy and cocky. Sam could run figurative circles around her classmates academically and literal circles around them on track or field. That, added to her height, and she was an intimidating prospect for any teenage boy. Ben wasn't deterred by her sharp wit or towering height. He flattered and teased her. The attention was nice. So she'd picked him to try out this sex thing.

She found the party itself as pointless as the usual social gatherings she was forced to endure. Ben was easy to separate from the crowd. If she'd learned anything from her brother and father, it was how to manipulate people. A few hand picked sentences and Ben was suggesting they go for a drive.

Sam felt like the condom was burning a hole in her pocket as she walked to the car. Her stomach flipped nervously. She wiped her palms on her jeans, hiding the motion when Ben's back was turned to open the door for her. At least she'd picked a gentleman.

He pulled over on some random back road. Sam had to wonder how many girls he'd brought here before. Or maybe she was his first and his friends had told him about the spot. For all she knew, her brother told Ben about this spot, unaware of Ben's intentions. If Dean'd had any inkling about what she was planning he'd have killed her.

Ben leaned across the seat and kissed her. Her first impression was how wet it was. His mouth mashed uncomfortably against hers. Then his tongue invaded her mouth. It was like drinking your own saliva after having spit it out.

Nothing she'd seen had prepared her for this. The teenagers macking in the hallways of the high school seemed so into this process. Sucking at each others' faces. Swapping gum from one partner to the other. The movies showed make-out sessions with swelling music and glamorous lighting. She hadn't expected fireworks, she wasn't that naive. But she hadn't expected to be grossed out either.

The radio accompanied the sloppy sound of their kissing, the music tinny through the old beat up speakers. Sam dredged up everything she'd ever heard Dean say about kissing. She put her hand to Ben's face, cupping his cheek and jaw in her palm and took control. It slowly got better. She could almost ignore the sour taste of cheap beer that lingered on his tongue, the smell of smoke from the party that clung to their clothes, the heavy humidity that came into her lungs from his exhaled breaths.

Ben pawed at her body. His hands roaming over her as if he had some kind of right. He clutched at her breasts and pulled at her clothes. Sam pulled away and stripped. It was time to move this thing along.

Ben's eyes lit up. "Hell, yeah." He stripped. He was just as awkward at removing his own clothes as he had been at touching her. She figured it had to be the excitement, or something to do with the blood that should be feeding his brain being re-tasked lower in his anatomy. He was usually a well coordinated kid.

She was left waiting as he struggled with his jeans in the confined space. Left to consider exactly what was going on and how she was naked before him. She was too skinny to be attractive, all hard angles and jutting bones. Dean was the one that had made out like a bandit in the gene pool. Men had started to notice Sam a while back, and if Ben was any indicator, she was hot enough to get a man hard. But Dean was at a completely different level. The saying 'women want to screw him and men want to be him' didn't apply to Dean. The men wanted to screw him too.

Sam dragged her pants up from the floor. She reached into the pocket for the condom and was disconcerted to see that her hand was trembling. She watched that tremor in fascination. It had to be the adrenalin running through her system. She helped fight some of the most dangerous monsters in existence, and if she'd batted an eye it hadn't been because she'd lost her nerve. Surely she wasn't afraid of the completely ordinary teenage boy next to her.

Ben finally parted company with the last of his clothes. He gathered the sprawl of his limbs and moved toward her across the back seat. She held out the condom like a shield. Her relief when he grabbed it and turned his attention away from her was a bad sign. This whole idea had been poorly conceived. She didn't have anything to prove, she didn't have to do this. But she'd gotten this far, it seemed a little dumb to stop now. It wasn't like she'd avoid sex forever. She was going to try it eventually.

Ben got the condom on and turned back to Sam. She stared at his penis for a long moment. She hadn't seen one since she'd forced Dean to show her the difference between girls and boys when they were little.

She and Ben fumbled their way into some kind of position to accomplish their goal, but not before Sam elbowed him in the ribs and his forehead hit her lip. He took himself in his hand, lined himself up, then pushed. It _hurt_.

Sam scrambled backwards away from the pain. "Hang on," she panted. She'd broken bones, twisted and dislocated joints, once she'd even been stabbed. This pain was different from all of those. It felt like someone was trying to rip apart her insides like cold salt water taffy.

"C'mon baby," Ben wheedled. He pushed again.

"Stop." Sam pushed at his chest. Apparently, she was being too polite because Ben continued to try to shove his way in. Like hell she had to put up with this. Sam twisted. She bucked her hips and dumped him into the footwell. "I said stop." She was done with this whole horrible experience. Whatever the appeal, she didn't get it and after this she had no intention to.

Ben cursed as she tumbled from the car. She collected her clothes and dressed, letting the sound of his voice wash past her. His bitter tirade wasn't worth the effort to listen to. Fully clothed, she walked away.

Considering the time of year, it really wasn't too bad of a night for a walk. And she was in for a walk. Unless she was much mistaken, she was about seven miles from town. She wasn't likely to be mistaken, one of the many skills their father had imparted upon them from his military days was navigation. He'd hammered it into them until they could find their way even if they'd never seen the terrain before. She could have done with a jacket, but as long as she kept moving she'd be comfortable.

She only made it about a mile and a half when the headlights caught her. It wouldn't be Ben, he'd have taken a different road to go home. She stuck out a thumb, not really expecting the car to stop. She didn't know what odd hour of the morning it was, she'd forgotten her watch in the motel room. Whatever the time, anybody picking up a stranger at this hour, even an innocent looking girl like her, was an idiot.

To her surprise, the car slowed and pulled up alongside her. For a brief moment she sincerely hoped it was a kidnapper. She could use a good fight right about now. When she looked in the rolled down window, Dean looked back at her.

"Awesome," she grumbled. The whole night had been a fiasco. She'd been stupid to try to force the experience and she really hadn't wanted to share her folly with her brother. She had no idea how he'd found her, resourceful bastard. On top of it all, she was pretty sure she was bleeding into her panties.

She didn't wait for his jaunty taunt, she just walked around their father's classic 1967 Chevy Impala and climbed into the passenger seat. Dean held his peace, which Sam considered a small miracle in a night otherwise full of disappointment.

She stared out the window, watching the silhouettes of trees roll past. She could feel Dean cast glances her way. His concern ate away at her anger. It chipped away at the wall she'd built to keep out the misery caused by her miscalculation.

Ben's curses drifted from her memory. She may have ignored them, but that didn't mean she hadn't heard them. _Slut. Tease. Bitch._ The implication that she wasn't any good. As if he hadn't been part of the problem. His ridicule was contradictory. A slut by definition wasn't a tease. A slut was easy, a sure thing. And sure, Sam could be a bitch, but he'd earned it. He was the one that wasn't any good. The one that had ruined everything.

The car slowed. Dean pulled over onto the gravel shoulder of this road to nowhere.

His hands closed over Sam and pulled her across the bench seat and into his arms. She realized she was crying. Big, fat tears running hot down her cheeks. She hid her face in his chest and pulled her knees up into her body as far as Dean's rib cage and hip would allow. She hid the tears, the shame, her disenchantment with something that was supposed to be meaningful and amazing.

Dean simply held her and let her cry. His arms were tight around her, yet gentle. He smelled of their dad's hand-me-down leather jacket and smoke from whatever bar he'd been in. Under that was the smell of cheap motel soap and some scent she associated uniquely with Dean. She didn't feel dirty and exploited in Dean's arms, she felt loved.

The knot in her stomach eased. Her legs relaxed out into a more comfortable position.

"Did he hurt you?" Dean asked. His voice was tightly controlled and she knew Ben's immediate well being rested on her response.

"He's an ass, not suicidal," she snapped. It stung that he still didn't think she could take care of herself. Their dad obviously shared the opinion or he wouldn't have left Dean to look after her.

She felt Dean pull back, angling for a glimpse of her face. She looked up at him as defiantly as she could, considering her eyes were still red and puffy from crying. His expression was pure worry, as if she were the most important thing on the planet.

He put his hand to her face and smoothed away the tension he found there. It was what he'd done when she'd had nightmares as a kid. She closed her eyes and let him. His thumb worked across her forehead, then over her eyebrows. Down her nose, onto her cheek. She relaxed under his touch.

"You deserve better, Sammy. You deserve someone who will be respectful and gentle. Someone you actually care about." His voice was a low rumble. It had dropped a few years back. She'd still been young enough to crawl into his lap and ask for stories. She remembered leaning back against him and letting his voice vibrate through her chest and into her lungs. She'd savored those moments, settled in the safe haven of his embrace.

Dean's hand settled against her cheek, stroking her cheekbone with his thumb. She opened her eyes and looked up at him. It was disconcerting to be the center of his attention. Sometimes it was as if she didn't even exist for all the attention he paid. Other times, like this, it was like they were the only two people in the world.

Dean bowed his head and his lips brushed hers. It was gentle, almost chaste. But the contact sent lightening racing along her nerves. His breathing was calm and steady, mingling with her own. This sharing of breath and soft kissing felt more intimate than Ben's latex wrapped dick shoving at her cunt.

This, this was what she'd expected. This is what had been missing from her aborted attempt to lose her virginity.

Dean pulled back. His heart drummed against her hands. He looked away from her and out the window. He barely moved, but he'd pulled away as completely as if he'd left the car. Sam was confused and hurt by the rejection and retreated to her own side of the car.

Dean gripped the wheel, his knuckles blanching white against the black leather. He released his grip, opened the door and climbed out. She stayed in the car, waiting him out. She didn't want him to ruin this. Didn't want to go back to thinking what an imbecile she'd been. Didn't want to feel like one of Dean's easy conquests that he left scattered to the four winds.

Dean stayed out there, leaning against the car. His arms were crossed and his chin dipped so low it almost rested against his chest.

Finally Sam crawled over the seat and scrambled out the driver's door.

"Were you careful?" he asked.

She nodded. "We almost didn't get far enough for it to matter." She really didn't want to tell him anything, but for some reason this seemed important to add.

"You bleeding? You need to go to the store?"

Sam flushed. "_Dean_."

Dean threw up his hands as he turned to face her. "You're not the first virgin I've ever met."

Sam's cheeks burned. She nodded reluctantly. "I've got what I need at the motel."

Dean looked like he was going to be sick. "I'm gonna kill him."

Sam approached Dean cautiously. She wasn't sure of her reception. Didn't know if their kiss would change anything that was between them. She reached out, her fingers lightly brushing the leather of Dean's jacket. Their father's jacket.

Their dad would kill them if he found out about any of this.

"Don't tell Dad," she whispered.

Dean took a deep breath and nodded. He patted her shoulder. "Get in the car, kiddo. Let's get you cleaned up."


	2. Ignored and Smothered

Her dad handed her a heavy 9 x 12 envelope, one eyebrow raised curiously. They stopped by the PO Box every couple weeks, when the money ran out, so he could pick up the funds his handlers deposited there. Occasionally, John would have the mail forwarded to their motel if he planned on keeping them in one place for a while. It was Sam's only solid link to the outside world. Everything else changed – towns, schools, people. They never stayed any one place for very long. And they seldom returned to a town they'd already visited. But somehow they managed to swing by the PO Box in Lawrence, Kansas several times a year.

Now she was standing outside the familiar beige brick and blue stone building with a white open end envelope in hand. She stared down at the front of the package. The return address said Stanford.

Dean had run hot and cold since the night he'd kissed her. Most of the time he acted like she didn't exist. But any time she needed him, he was never more than an arms reach away. She felt ignored and smothered at the same time.

She'd done the only thing that made sense. She'd applied for college, despite the fact she was only 16. She used her background and her finely honed skills at manipulation to get in. Between being raised like some homeless runaway, her age, and her test scores, she was a university's wet dream for a scholarship recipient. Sam tested well. It was the only way to pass from one grade to the next when she didn't stay in one place long enough for teachers to evaluate her in any more meaningful way.

She opened the envelope with shaking hands. Inside was her scholarship information, dorm assignment, and instructions on how to register for her first semester of classes. She held a four year, all expenses paid vacation to Stanford University.

Her dad opened a smaller envelope from Stanford. It was addressed to her - the acceptance letter. She couldn't read the meaning behind the look he gave her, but she suspected it didn't bode well. "We'll talk about this later," was all he said.

She swallowed dryly and nodded. "Yes, sir." She looked back at the package in her hands. It had seemed such a reasonable idea when she'd done it. She'd known they'd accept her, her essay guaranteed it. But now that it was here, weighing heavy in her hand, she wasn't sure she could go through with it. She'd have to leave behind the only two people she'd known for longer than a month.

* * *

Dean hit the roof when he found out.

"What the hell do you want to go to college for?" he demanded. "Surrounded by entitled yuppies, you'd be bored out of your skull." He had quite a bit more to say on the subject. He was vehemently against her going. She fought back just as passionately, more from habit and to prove that he didn't control her than because she still wanted to go. She didn't want to go. She didn't want to leave him.

"Let her go, Dean," John said. His quiet tone cut through their fight more effectively than any shouting could have. "She's not family, she doesn't belong here."

It was like a slap in the face. These two men were the only family she remembered. She'd been too young to form any tangible memories when their mother was killed. She'd never met any cousins, grandparents, aunts, or uncles. These two were her entire world.

She stood frozen, listening to them breathe. She and Dean panted heavily from their bickering. Their father exhaled silently into the spaces between. The TV from the room next door buzzed, a laugh track and applause complementing the muffled dialogue. A thud came from another room. Headlights swung across the stained and worn curtains.

"Get out, girl," John said dispassionately.

"Dad, no." Dean sounded like he was in shock.

Sam picked up her bag. She didn't have to be at school for a couple months. She wouldn't have left so soon, but maybe it was better this way.

"Sam..." Even Dean couldn't make their father disowning her any better. She shrugged off the sound of his voice and stepped out the door.

* * *

John and Dean slogged to the car. John didn't leave Dean behind anymore. No reason to now that Sam was gone. In the intervening months John had even started to let Dean work some of his own jobs. This particular job had required them both.

They were caked in mud and sweat from wading in a swamp all day. They dumped their weapons and John slammed the trunk shut. He turned to Dean and laid a hand on Dean's shoulder, stopping him.

"Out with it boy," John said.

"With what, sir?" Dean asked, hoping the conversation would be short. He was looking forward to a hot shower and a night of mindlessly cleaning mud out of their weapons. He could already smell the gun oil.

He'd been moving through their routine from habit. He felt numb, like a piece of him was missing ever since Sam walked out of that motel. She'd always been his annoying little sister, following him around and breaking his stuff. She was also the only one who knew what it was like to grow up the way they had.

"With whatever you've been wanting to say since Sam left. Get it off your chest before it distracts you and puts one or both of us in a shallow grave."

Dean had thought of a thousand things to say. Had ranted and raved at their father in his head. He'd cursed the man for his pig-headedness. He'd blamed him for being callous. He'd asked more questions than there were motels in New Jersey. After obsessing over it for months, the only thing he could ask was "Why?"

"Why'd she go?"

"Why'd you say she isn't family?" Dean said bluntly.

John's expression softened. "She would have stayed." He sounded regretful. "To take care of us. To work by your side. She would have stayed."

Dean understood then. Sam was different from the two of them. She was smart and she didn't belong in their itinerant lifestyle. They'd done their best to protect her from the ugly things John's job exposed them to. And they'd done it well. Sam belonged at school. Her life was meant to include a degree and a real job. A real life. But just because Dean understood didn't mean he approved.

John clapped him on the shoulder. They got in the car and John turned up the heat full blast. "She isn't family either." He pulled the car off the grassy shoulder and onto the empty stretch of asphalt. "We have no claim on her." He sounded sorry, like he wished he could claim her.

"What are you talking about?" Dean asked.

"You were too young to remember, but Sam was your brother. He died as a baby. Damn doctors couldn't even tell us what killed him, called it Sudden Infant Death Syndrome." The words were bitter as they hit the air. John gripped the wheel and stared at the night as it passed. Dry winter grass passed in the headlights and a light dusting of snow drifted across the road.

John relaxed his hands and continued. "Your mother came back with your sister one day a few weeks after the boy died. I never asked where she came from. It was obvious she'd been neglected and abused. Mary altered the gender on the birth certificate and that was that."

Dean felt like he'd just been plunged back into the ball-shriveling cold water of the swamp they'd left in the rearview. For months, he'd struggled with the guilt of wanting his sister. Ever since the night she'd popped her cherry and he'd kissed her. Now none of it mattered. They weren't even related.

But did that make her any less his sister? He'd helped change her diapers since before he'd had words to describe what he was doing. She was still the girl whose hair he'd pulled and wrestled into the ground. He'd given her noogies and taught her how to give the best indian burns.

He'd been there the day she'd accidentally spilled a carton of milk all over a new classmate's head. The memory of her horrified expression still made him smile. He'd been the one to help her pass off the faux pas, telling them both that milk was good for your hair and the kid's short locks would be sleek and healthy tomorrow because of it.

With all their history, how could she be anything other than his sister?

He had to see her. If he could just see her, it would all make sense. She liked puzzling through these kinds of things. If he gave it to her in the abstract, she'd worry at the knot of it for days before coming to any conclusions.

John looked at Dean sidelong. "Don't even think it, boy. She's better off where she is. Safer."

What did he know? He hadn't been there as Sammy struggled and failed to make friends at all the new schools they'd been dragged to. Hadn't watched over her and tried to fill in the gaping holes left by growing up with men. Dean had been there for her first period. He'd been the one to sweet talk a girlfriend into explaining the different products and how they were used. Sammy was the reason he'd asked all the girls he bedded a zillion questions about what it was like to be a woman. She was the reason he'd tried on Rhonda Hurley's silky underwear.

John hadn't done any of that. He'd barely made sure they had a roof over their heads and food in their bellies.

"She's _family_," Dean insisted.

John shot him a glare. "She's not a pet. Leave her be."

Dean let it drop. He took his shower. He cleaned his weapons. Then, when he was sure John had drunk himself into a sound stupor, he snuck out the door.


	3. Hiya Sammy

p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; line-height: 200%;"John shut down the credit cards systematically one by one, trying to force Dean to come back. Dean was forced to hustle for money, which slowed him down considerably. He wanted to have reliable funds when he got there, so he kept the card John didn't know about in reserve./p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; line-height: 200%;"Getting through the holidays had been rough. Their celebrations were a piss poor excuse, but he and Sam had always been together. Growing up, Dean did everything he could to make sure Sam had presents to open each year. Even when John got stuck on a job and couldn't make it back, or the money was so tight they were sleeping in the car because they couldn't afford a room, he always made sure she had something. Now he was completely alone, without even the small comfort of John's presence./p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; line-height: 200%;"He wondered if she'd made friends who opened their home to her. If she'd had a Christmas with a real tree. She'd always wanted a Christmas tree. Maybe she had a boyfriend who took her home to meet his parents. Or maybe she'd been in the dorms by herself./p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; line-height: 200%;"By the time he arrived at Stanford, the new semester was a couple of weeks in. Last semester he'd charmed his way into getting her class schedule over the phone. It had helped, knowing where she was at certain times of the day, even if it was only a building on a map. This time he wasn't feeling particularly charming. He felt dirty from being on the road and skipping showers, so he just broke in after hours. He not only got Sam's current schedule, but her dorm room too./p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; line-height: 200%;"Breaking into the dorms was child's play. No lock picks or fancy electronics required. He simply followed someone else in the door. He skipped the elevator and headed for the stairs. He was pretty sure he was stalling. Now that he was here he wasn't sure what he would do. What he would say first. He hadn't even managed to decide whether or not he was going to tell her they weren't blood related. He jogged up the stairs, the exertion clearing his head./p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; line-height: 200%;"He rapped on her door before thinking could get in the way. A knock out blond answered. Her shorts were short, showing off long legs. Her shirt was split invitingly at the neck. Dean took the invitation and eyed her rack./p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; line-height: 200%;""I love the smurfs," he said with a gesture at the two drawings, one to each breast. She rolled her eyes. He shrugged off her cool reception. "Sam here?"/p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; line-height: 200%;"She shook her head. He put his arm out to stop her from shutting the door in his face. The girl paused and looked back at him./p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; line-height: 200%;""Know when she'll be back?" he asked./p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; line-height: 200%;"The girl turned to face him square on. "Who are you?"/p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; line-height: 200%;"Dean hesitated a second too long. He didn't want to say he was Sam's brother, in case he decided to tell her the truth and things changed between them./p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; line-height: 200%;""Okay, stalker." The woman shut the door firmly before Dean could come up with a suitable lie. He heard the lock click into place./p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; line-height: 200%;"He headed back to the car he'd borrowed a couple hundred miles back. It hadn't worked at all when he first put his hand to it. He didn't think the owner would miss it all that much. He knew Sam's schedule. Now he had all night to figure out what to say and get cleaned up./p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; line-height: 200%;"Early the next morning, he slipped into one of the boys dorms. A quick glance at the fire escape map showed him everything he needed. His first stop was the laundry. He borrowed a towel from an unclaimed load sitting in a dryer, stripped naked, then shoved all his clothes into a single washer. Even with every washable item he owned, it was an easy fit./p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; line-height: 200%;"Next was a shower. He used the small bar of soap he'd swiped from a motel and scrubbed down in the communal shower. It was early enough in the day that the few guys passing in and out didn't notice that he wasn't a resident. Toweled dry and in clean clothes, he pulled out the hair gel his vanity wouldn't let him go without. He spiked it up the way girls liked and gave himself a once over in the mirror. He'd do./p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; line-height: 200%;"He leaned against the side of the building as he waited for her class to let out. After months without her, she was now so close he could almost feel her on the other side of the wall./p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; line-height: 200%;"She didn't see him when she exited. Her back was to him, but he'd never mistake that glossy brown hair or lanky frame./p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; line-height: 200%;"He pushed away from the building and followed. He adopted his cockiest grin and was about to call out. He knew exactly what to say – emHiya, Sammy/em. Simple was always better. Why mess with what worked?/p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; line-height: 200%;"As he watched, the girl beside Sam leaned in and bumped her shoulder. She leaned in close and whispered in Sam's ear. He couldn't make out what she said, but he heard the girl on Sam's other side clearly. "Secrets don't make friends," she sing-songed./p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; line-height: 200%;""Give her a break," a guy said. "She's whispering sweet little nothings."/p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; line-height: 200%;"Sam gave the guy a friendly shove./p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; line-height: 200%;""What?" the guy protested. "I never said you liked it."/p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; line-height: 200%;"Sam laughed./p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; line-height: 200%;"Dean could easily make out the group now. Sam had friends. Not just one or two. A whole mess of them. And these were only the ones here now. She had to have other friends that weren't in this class./p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; line-height: 200%;"Dean stopped walking. Co-eds streamed around him like motes of dust in the air. She didn't need him. She was happy without him. She'd finally found a place she belonged. Sam was quickly lost in the crowd./p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; line-height: 200%;"Dean could be selfish about anything. Had been selfish about most things. But he couldn't be selfish about this. Their dad was right, she wasn't a pet he could keep./p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; line-height: 200%;"Dean walked away. He got roaring drunk, then he got laid. It was the first time since Sam had walked out of his life. And it was a spectacular fiasco./p 


	4. Dad's On A Hunting Trip

Dean waited in an old-school twenty-four hour family diner, the kind stereotyped in movies and TV shows. There was a reason the entertainment industry used them, they were still everywhere in Small Town USA. As long as mom and pop could cook cheap carbs on a greasy griddle, places like this would exist.

He fiddled with an empty sugar packet, his other arm flung carelessly over the back of the booth. He'd been waiting in this backwater town for two days. He and John split up over a week ago when a driver job opened in an organization they'd been trying to infiltrate. Dean took the job and John, supposedly, went north for a babysitting gig. Dean's thing only took a couple days. John's babysitting job was supposed to be for a weekend. They'd agreed to meet here when they were done.

It didn't even occur to Dean that his dad's job went south. John had been acting squirrelly for weeks. He'd take a call, then walked out of Dean's hearing before saying anything. He sent Dean on recon missions, then disappeared for hours. One time a couple weeks ago, he disappeared for over a day. Now John wasn't answering his phone.

After having been included in all of John's plans for over two years, it was hard to get cut out like some teenage punk in need of protection. Dean didn't like it, but there wasn't much he could do about it. He'd already tried the obvious stuff: the GPS in John's phone was disabled, there were no new transactions on the credit cards, and their contact for John's job said he never showed. One of the bank accounts had a large cash withdrawal, but it had been made days ago. With that kind of money, John could be anywhere by now. Dean couldn't even run the plates for the car because John had insisted Dean take it for the run.

The waitress stopped by to top off his coffee. She was short, but cute in a small town kind of way. She'd never be a movie star, but had an understated kind of beauty that wouldn't be appreciated by guys her age.

"It's Monday, right?" he asked as she topped off his coffee.

She nodded. "What do you do that you don't know what day it is?"

Dean flashed her his most disarming and flirty smile. "Not your typical 9 to 5." Chicks dug the mystery man routine and this girl was no exception. She giggled and by the way she glanced at him from the corner of her eye before turning away, he knew all he had to do was ask. She was enjoying the attention.

The true secret to Dean's success at getting laid was that he understood there were many kinds of beauty. And he appreciated them all. Other guys thought he got the hottest girl in the room. Really he just made a woman feel like the hottest one in the room and let her do the rest. He didn't think it would work with Sam though. As far as he could tell, Sam didn't give a damn about looks. Which drew it's own kind of attention and problems.

Dean ripped the sugar packed open and dumped it into his coffee. He wasn't interested in the waitress anymore. All he could think of was hazel green eyes, straight brown hair, and legs so long they set Sam's head above his own.

Both of the people he loved had abandoned him. While one of them was beyond his reach, he knew the current class list and apartment number of the other.

Dean stood and fished a handful of wadded ones out of his pocket to pay for the coffee and tip. He was on his way through the door before he realized he'd even made a decision. He started the Impala, turned up the volume, and started singing along with his cassette at the top of his lungs. He refused to think too hard about where he was headed or why.

* * *

Dean opted for a covert entry. It was an ingrained habit and one he wasn't interested in breaking. He didn't think past getting into the apartment, but it turned out to be a non-issue. Sam hadn't gone completely soft, she heard his stealthy entrance and came to investigate.

Dean didn't hear her until it was nearly too late. She had the element of surprise, but Dean had two recent years of hard knocks under his belt. He ducked her initial swing, then decided without deciding to see if she still had chops.

She blocked his punch, but missed the shove that sent her stumbling into the next room. Her kick was clumsy. He could have grabbed her leg and flipped her off balance, but instead moved in with an arm-bar to her sternum, following her down to hold her pinned to the floor.

"Easy, Longshanks," he teased. That particular nickname was her own fault for drawing his attention to a history book. Some king of somewhere, tall for his time, had been dubbed Longshanks. The picture in the book looked too much like Sam for him to pass up.

"Dean?" Sam sounded incredulous. Her breath came hard, like she'd been in a prolonged fight instead of a light spar.

Dean tossed his head back and laughed. She looked amazing, tousled and panting from their skirmish. Her skin was silver and her hair black in the dim light of the moon streaming through the same windowed he'd entered. And his name on her lips was like the best moment of Vegas week.

"You scared the crap out of me!" she protested.

"That's 'cause you're out of practice," he retorted.

One of Sam's long legs wrapped around his torso. Before he could figure out what she was up to, she twisted with a sharp jerk. Suddenly, she was on top, her fingers around his throat.

"Or not," he conceded. He was abruptly hyper-aware of her body pressed to his. He tapped out, his hand against the one around his throat. But his other hand traitorously drifted down to settle on her thigh. She was wearing pajama shorts, leaving plenty of skin available to touch. "Let me up." His voice was already rough with desire. He pointedly ignored the other parts of him that were responding to her body.

She stood and held out a hand. He took it and let her help haul him to his feet. Once upright, he was struck by how tall she was. She now had a few inches even on him. "What the hell are you doing here?" she demanded.

"I was hoping for a beer..." he trailed off, pretending to look for one. Damn, it was good to be back. He gave up the pretext and clapped a hand to Sam's shoulder, giving her a little shake.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she repeated.

"Alright, alright." He held up his hands in surrender, head bowed ever so slightly. Looking up at women through his eyelashes usually helped his case. "I need your help."

She stepped back and crossed her arms. "What's so important that you couldn't just pick up the phone?" she asked. He got the distinct impression she thought he was an imbecile for not having done just that in over three years.

She'd called a couple times. Always at an hour that made it obvious she was drunk dialing. He could never bring himself to answer. He knew he wouldn't be able to talk to her and not see her. Knew he'd just end up dragging her back into the life. Of course, that hadn't stopped him from listening to her voicemails. And he'd been 100% right, because drag her back was exactly what he was about to do.

"Sam?" The same knock-out blond that answered the door to Sam's dorm room three years ago wandered in sleepily. This time Dean knew her name was Jessica, but her friends called her Jess. He knew she and Sam had signed a one year lease on the apartment they were standing in. He even knew what her signature looked like. God bless digital records.

"Hey, Jess. Didn't mean to wake you." Sam drifted toward the other woman, reaching out to lightly brush her arm, as if needing the physical contact to prove she wasn't dreaming. "This is Dean. He dropped by for a drink."

"Wait, your brother Dean?" The sleep was starting to fade from her eyes and Dean saw an intelligence to be wary of.

Even in the dark Dean saw his sister flush. "Yeah," she answered. The fact Jess knew about him was a good sign. It meant Sam hadn't forgotten him completely.

Jess was eyeing him thoughtfully. "You look familiar," she said.

Sam stepped back to her brother and gave him a push. "If you went for guys, I'd say you probably slept with him and forgot all about it."

Dean couldn't help the shit-eating grin that spread across his face any more than he could stop breathing. He walked over to Jess and took a hand. "You make an exception for me..." he kissed her palm, "and I guarantee you'll never forget." He was totally comfortable being this brazen in front of his sister when the other woman was a lesbian.

Jess rolled her eyes and reclaimed her hand. She moved to flank his sister and crossed her arms. It was an obvious show of support.

"Alright, Dean. What do you want?" Sam asked.

Both women stood framed by the large window, their features lost in deep shadow. Dean let his eyes rest on Sam, drinking in her silhouette.

"Dad hasn't been home in a few days," he hedged, unwilling to discuss family business in front of Jess.

"I don't have a father anymore, remember?" Sam's voice was bitter. More bitter than the day she'd walked out on them. The day John kicked her out, allegedly for her own good.

"You're _my_ family, Sammy." Dean allowed no room for argument in his tone. "No matter what."

Sam walked over to an end table and turned on the lamp. She turned to Jess. "Can you give us a minute?"

Jess nodded, but she stopped to rub Sam's arm and look her in the eye. Sam offered a smile, which was apparently what Jess was waiting for, because with that, she headed from the room.

Dean watched her departure appreciatively as she disappeared into the bedroom. The only bedroom. He couldn't help but wonder what his sister had been up to in his absence. When his gaze flicked back to her, she was frowning.

"Sam, dad's missing."

Sam shrugged. "John's always missing. He'll stumble back sooner or later."

Dean knew she was pissed. Knew he was an unwelcome intruder in her new life.

He didn't care. He didn't have a single regret about coming here and crashing her perfect little world. He'd scraped by without her for as long as he was going to. He wasn't leaving without her this time.

"I can't find him without you," he said. Flattery and ego stoking worked on everyone, even his sister wasn't immune.

She crossed her arms, the motion bracketing her breasts and drawing his attention down. He quickly snapped his eyes back up, hoping she hadn't noticed. "So you broke in in the middle of the night and expect... what? Me to hit the road with you like old times?"

"Yeah," he answered blithely. They both knew it was an act. He didn't expect her to just up and leave without a fight. "C'mon Sammy, we'll get pie," he coaxed.

She sighed disgustedly, flinging her arms in the air. "Dean, you're the one that likes pie."

He slapped her shoulder and headed for the door, hoping she'd follow. "I know."


	5. Silence Broken

Sam's computer was open on her lap. While the laptop had been on for hours now, she hadn't accomplished anything. She was busy seething. She couldn't believe she'd let him talk her into the car. Three years of silence, then he showed up, batted his eyes, and she hopped in the car like a love sick teenager.

They left well before sunrise that morning. It was now dark again, but the anger wouldn't quit. To add insult to injury, he insisted on driving. Like he didn't trust her behind the wheel of his precious Impala. True, she was barely old enough to have a license last time he saw her, but she'd been driving for years.

John taught each of them to drive on their twelfth birthday. He then proceeded to include them in rotation for the cross country drives he was so fond of. He didn't let them drive in cities. It wasn't from any concern of ineptitude, it was all about the probability of getting caught. Dean had a baby face and would have gotten pulled over.

She studied him out of the corner of her eye by the blue-white light of the laptop. His baby face was gone now. It was like the years alone with John had beaten the soft edges out of him. He was all flat planes and hard angles. She barely recognized the brother she loved in the man next to her.

She forced her attention back to the screen.

"Do you really think we'll find a trail?" Dean asked. Sam gave up on the computer with a sigh. Dean let her stew in silence all day. He would choose the moment she actually had a chance of accomplishing something to strike up a conversation.

"How long after you left did he make the withdrawal?" she asked. He'd given her a rundown of the situation before they left Sam's apartment. He laid out the facts, then left it to her on where to start.

"A day, maybe two."

"And when was his job supposed to start?" She could have just said 'yes' and left it at that. It would have shut him up for a little while at least. Or she could explain her reasoning in broad strokes. Either way, he would have started asking questions again in a couple hours. It was always best to walk Dean through a decision. He didn't like to admit it, and went to some lengths to hide it, but the boy was smart. And he had his own ideas on how things should be done. He was less likely to fight her if he understood her reasoning.

"Day after the withdrawal," Dean answered.

"Sounds like he meant to take the job, then something changed his mind. You find out where the money came out?"

Dean shook his head. "Feds flagged the account. I was lucky to get what I did."

If push came to shove, they could find out. They'd both worked with enough Feds to have connections. But in their line of work, it was best to keep contact at an absolute minimum. Dean most likely used the sources he had a plausible reason to keep as casual acquaintances. Unfortunately, they weren't usually the most well informed. The number of reasons for people like them to have a public relationship with the really well connected was just too small. If they dug any further they might tip their hand to some very nasty people. The kind of nasty people they'd helped put behind bars.

Most of those locked away thanks to the Rigbys had no idea she, Dean, or John had anything to do with it. It was John's number one rule: 'Never let them know who you are.' Number two was 'Never let them know what you're up to.' But number two wasn't always within your control. So if number two fell through, as long as you stuck with rule one, your enemies couldn't find you.

Because of rule one, sometimes even their legitimate, governmental contacts didn't know who they were. They just knew John came recommended by the higher ups and where to send the money when the job was done. It made getting out of jail harder, which was why rule three was 'Don't get caught.' But rule three was flexible. There were times when getting caught was advantageous. Like establishing criminal legitimacy or as an excuse to rub elbows with a target.

Not that John ever let her do that. Her record, fake and real, was clean. Opportunities for that particular strategy tended to run to men. Sam didn't mind, the idea of being stuck in a cell didn't appeal to her. The stories Dean told certainly didn't change her opinion either. She had other methods at her disposal that she preferred and wouldn't work for the guys.

"What do you expect to find in that podunk town?" Dean asked.

Sam didn't expect to find much in Adel, the town where Dean and John had parted ways, so she shrugged. Adel was a small city outside Des Moines, Iowa. It was too far out to be considered a suburb, but close enough to be semi-convenient. It was also on their way to Chicago, so it was worth checking out. "We'll do a canvas, see if we can get a beat on the car he took. If we're lucky we might find something to tell us we're on the right track."

Sam cast a surreptitious glance at the fuel gauge. They were down to a quarter tank. Per the old car rules, if you had to hit the head, you did it during a stop for gas or you went on the side of the road. Sam was never a fan of going on the side of the road. Her brother and John didn't seem to mind, but they didn't have to expose nearly as much to get the job done. She'd also seen them use empty bottles to relieve themselves, so she didn't find their toileting habits a thing to aspire to.

She turned her attention back to the computer to distract herself. She had classes she needed to pass. She'd never let their lifestyle slow her down before and she wasn't about to start now. The battery sign flashed large across the screen, then the whole contraption shut down. Sam exhaled in frustration and turned to root through her bag in the back for a power converter.

xXx

Dean finally let her drive around midnight. He'd been on the road non-stop for days, maybe closer to a full week. Not that days on the road was outside the norm for either of them, but even Dean had to sleep.

John's trail was getting colder. For every hour that passed it became more unlikely they'd be able to find him. So regardless of whether Dean would have preferred to pull over for a few hours sleep, then keep driving himself, he did the smart thing and let Sam drive. He pulled over on the side of the interstate, surrendered the wheel to Sam, then sprawled in the back, using his jacket as a pillow. He was asleep by the time Sam got back up to cruising speed.

She stole glances at him in the rearview. He'd wedged himself in the corner, his long legs stretched out, back propped against the door, arms crossed over his chest. He was much more palatable when asleep. Sam always found it fascinating how innocent her brother looked in that unconscious state. But even then he was no angel. When he had an actual bed, he kept a knife under his pillow and a gun within reach on the nightstand. He'd done it ever since John first let them handle weapons. Although, if she remembered correctly, there was a reason John gave Dean a knife in the first place.

When Dean was awake he perpetually got them both in trouble and threw around that cocky grin. She swore the only other people to smile like that were five year olds trying to weasel their way out of trouble with their mother. It made her glad the age difference between them was too big for her to remember that phase of Dean's childhood. She was plagued by that smile quite enough as it was.

She glanced in the rearview again and could almost see the halo floating over his head. She hoped he was having nightmares. It would serve him right.

Dean shifted in his sleep, his hair sticking out at crazy angles from his make-shift pillow and being pressed to the glass. His hair was too dark to be blonde, even dirty blonde. But it was too light to be brunette. There was no question about Sam's hair. Even her highlights and lowlights were brown. It was an aspect she'd inherited from John that Dean hadn't.

Street lights shone in the window as they passed a town, throwing Dean's features in sharp relief. She studied him in those brief flashes. Not one text, email, phone call, letter, or postcard in three years. Yet she'd already forgiven him. No apology. No gesture to show contrition for abandoning her to the world. Just called her family and he was forgiven.

She hated herself a little bit for that.

It hurt when John disowned her. He couldn't exactly kick her out of the house, she couldn't remember a time when they'd had a home the way normal people did, but he and Dean were her family. They'd been her only friends. Dean hadn't even tried to stop him. Sure, he'd made a feeble protest, but then he cut all communication as surely as John did. He wouldn't even answer the phone when she called.

She only called when she drank, and she didn't get that drunk very often. She knew all too well that alcohol wouldn't drown a single sorrow, it usually just bloated them until the whole thing ruptured in a disgusting, pitiful mess. John taught her that. So she only drank when she was in a good mood.

All of which meant that when she called Dean, she was happy. She called because she wanted to share that with him.

She didn't want to forgive him for three years of silence. For letting her think that all of her life she'd been nothing more than a burden. That the two people she loved most in this world didn't care for her at all. She wanted to make him pay for everything he put her through. She wanted to be petty, and cruel, and childish. But the instant he used that ridiculous nickname she knew she'd forgive him anything as long as he was beside her.

For a fleeting moment, when her hand had been wrapped firmly around his neck, she'd thought it was a dream. A dream of better days, when they squabbled like children and Dean won by the simple expedient of being older, which made him bigger and stronger. Those were the dreams she didn't want to wake from. The ones that made her heart ache and made it nearly impossible to slog through the following days.

Now she was driving through the cornfields of the Midwest with him asleep in the back seat having spent the whole day by his side. All in all, she figured that was better than any dream.

She pulled over on the exit ramp for Adel and stopped behind a semi. Sunrise was threatening the horizon, but they couldn't accomplish anything until people were awake to be interrogated. Dean shifted in the back, but didn't wake up, which was good. If he woke up, he'd insist they head into town immediately, regardless of what they may accomplish.

She wanted to crawl into the back with him. To be reassured of his physical presence and lulled to sleep by the rise and fall of his chest. Not to mention, his body heat would help ward off the mid-November chill. Instead, she stretched out across the front bench seat and got as comfortable as she could.


	6. Missing Photographs

Dean pulled into the gas station. There weren't that many choices in Adel to start with, but he figured this would have been John's top choice. Their best bet was that John bought a junker to drive to Chicago. If Dean was right, John would have stopped for gas on his way out of town.

This trick would only work once, and only if John stopped for gas here. Being a paranoid bastard, John would change up the interval at which he stopped for fuel instead of just waiting for the tank to run low. It made him harder to track because after that first tankful his stops were unpredictable.

A bell rang as they entered the store. The floors looked dirty, but they were so old and the grime so well ground in that they'd look dirty even if they were scrubbed with bleach every night. The clerk flipped through a magazine behind the counter.

They didn't have any pictures of John to show him. It was another of John's intrusively suspicious habits, never keep anything that could give away the people important enough to be used as leverage. So, no pictures. He went so far as to call them in sick on school picture day and burn all their childhood family photos from when Mary was alive.

Not having a photo of their mother was one of Dean's biggest regrets. When they lost Mary, her image and the sound of her voice were seared into Dean's brain. But as the years passed, she started to fade. He could only remember what she looked like now when there was a trigger. Sometimes a woman with the same perfume would pass and for one shining moment, he remembered everything about her. For days he could recall her face, how she sounded as she sang him to sleep. But every time, it faded back to nothing. He'd been afraid the same thing would happen with Sam, so every night before he went to sleep he would picture everything he could remember and rummage through his memories for both the good and the bad.

All of this meant they were forced to describe John to strangers. Unfortunately, there wasn't anything about John that particularly stood out to people. They could have been describing any six foot, brown haired man in his late forties.

The clerk listened to them with a bored expression, even though they were probably the most interesting thing that would happen to him today. He obviously hadn't seen better days - well out of his twenties and still working as a gas station attendant. He seemed resigned to a life with no bigger dreams than returning to a rundown trailer at the end of his shift.

"He would have been in a car that looked shitty, but ran real good," Dean added. John taught him everything he knew about cars. The man was a genius with an engine. There had been plenty of opportunities to practice over the years. The Impala was cherry, but she took a lot of work to keep that way. And she could be a temperamental beast some days.

"Alright, yeah." A spark of intelligence finally lit behind the clerk's eyes. "Duncan Dooley's car came through here a couple days ago. He's been trying to sell that thing forever. Musta finally dumped it on your guy. Ran better than when Duncan ever had it."

"You're sure it was your buddy Duncan's car?" Sam asked.

The clerk scratched the back of his neck. "Never said he was my buddy, but yeah. Still had all the dents in it from when his wife took a bat to it when she found out he stepped out on her."

Dean leaned casually against the counter. "What kind of car is it?"

"Some kind of early '90s Buick sedan."

Dean nodded. Sounded right. John could have gotten that tin can for a song. As long as he could get it to run, he wouldn't care what it looked like. They never kept the POS cars they bought or borrowed when they needed separate rides. If they picked it up legally, they usually made a couple hundred bucks in the deal. If they swiped it in a less socially acceptable way, they wiped it down and left it out in the open so the police could return it to the rightful owner. Sometimes they even filled up the tank.

"You see which way he went?" Sam asked.

The clerk looked at her like she was an idiot. "Yeah, left."

Sam rolled her eyes. Dean elbowed her in the ribs. He didn't want the guy to clam up on them. They'd wasted the morning hitting every used car dealer in the area. Fruitlessly, since John bought a ride off this Dooley character.

"You know the color or license plate?" Dean asked. He knew it was pointless to ask for video. That was why this place was his first choice, no cameras. When John made stops, he preferred to do it in places where he wouldn't leave evidence. Especially the photographic kind.

"Bluey-gray. Aren't all those old Buicks blue-gray?" the clerk answered.

"Plate?" Sam prompted.

John had three of their license plates on him when they split up, but he could have kept the one on the Buick or picked up a new one.

"What am I? Rain man? I didn't look at the plate. Even if I did, that was days ago. No way I remember some random plate that long. He paid cash and left, that's all I know."

Dean turned to Sam as they walked out the door. "This is the road he'd take to Chicago," he said.

Sam nodded. "Lets check the city. If we're lucky he got there before he changed his mind."

xXx

Dean knocked on the door of the run down motel. A call to John's contact yielded nothing more than this address and room number. It was a bunch of cloak and dagger bullshit. The job was over, the morons on the other end of the line should have just told him what he wanted to know.

A kid not much older than Dean opened the door. He was 5'10" with fluffy light brown hair. The kind that would curl if it was allowed to grow any longer. Coupled with his smooth, round cheeks, he looked younger than he actually was. Dean knew this guy. James was handsome, but not so much that he would attract attention. The CIA would have recruited him in an instant if he'd popped up on their radar. He was perfectly built for blending into a crowd.

"Dean, man am I glad to see you," James said.

"James." They'd worked together about a year ago on a serial rapist case. Dean was surprised to see James and it was obvious in his voice. The bust should have given James the status to avoid the kind of crap jobs that involved sitting around in a motel room alone.

James opened the door wider in an unspoken invitation to enter. The instant Dean stepped into the room he knew why the people on the phone sent them here. Propped on the bed was a lanky punk in his late teens. He had white blonde hair, which had probably been dyed the cheap way - with actual bleach.

Dean made room for Sam to enter, then turned to James. "I thought the job was only supposed to be a couple days," he said. "That was almost a week ago."

"Trial got suspended. Worst timing." James shut the door. "With the holidays, we're short staffed as it is, then your dad didn't show." That certainly explained James' current post. All bets were off when there weren't enough people to go around. "You here to take over? What happened to John anyway? I asked around and nobody's ever heard of him going AWOL."

Dean shrugged. He wouldn't usually share details with an outsider, but their rapist case had involved a lot of boring hours stuck in a car on stakeouts. He'd gotten to know James pretty well and trusted him as much as he trusted anyone that wasn't family. "We're trying to figure that out." At the mention of 'we' James' attention flicked to Sam. Dean waved in her general direction. "My sister, Sam."

James stepped forward, offering his hand. He was too tactful to give her a blatant once over, but Dean could see the other man's interest. Sam took his outstretched hand.

"Sleet," the punk on the bed interjected. Three heads turned to stare at him. "Name's Sleet," he clarified.

Dean eyed him. Sleet was a street name for cocaine. Names like that were usually given to, or adopted by, dealers and heavy users. From the kid's twitchy motions and rail thin build, Dean was sure he'd earned the moniker the second way. "Yeah, sure it is, Sport."

Sleet swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. He swaggered over, undaunted by Dean's unfriendly reply. He was neither tactful nor subtle, his eyes roving greedily over Sam's body. "How's it shaking, baby?"

Sam rolled her eyes. Dean's reaction wasn't nearly so tame. He wasn't about to put up with some hophead hitting on his sister. This little narc probably turned on the very people who supplied him. People he'd called friend. Dean had every intention of popping him one to teach him some manners.

Sam's hand pressed into his sternum, stopping him before he could get his hands on the little twerp. "Easy, Dean," she said. "Some lessons have to be learned the hard way." She gave him a sweet, friendly smile that was completely at odds with the words coming out of her mouth. Somehow, even with Dean's open hostility and threat of violence, she came off as the more dangerous of the two.

Dean wasn't sure Sam was aware of how intimidating she could be. While he'd seen her weasel her way into the confidence of witnesses, victims, and marks using nothing but empathy, he'd also seen her pull herself up to her full height and scare the shit out of some thick skulled asshat. She was quick to help the helpless, but this side of her was always there under the surface.

She turned to Sleet. "You were saying?" she asked, an innocent expression plastered on her face.

Sleet's deep set eyes darted back and forth between Sam and Dean. Having Sam's full attention could be uncomfortable, and Sleet was getting the full effect. Apparently, he wasn't as dumb as he looked because he picked up on their thinly veiled irritation and backed down.

"Just sayin' hi," Sleet mumbled. He retreated back to the bed, picked up the remote and started flipping through the channels, purposefully ignoring them.

Irritant removed, Dean abruptly became aware of Sam's hand on his chest and the proximity of her body. She dropped her hand without looking at him and turned back to James. "How long you been working with Dean?" she asked.

James shook his head, denying an ongoing partnership. "Just one job, about a year ago. Took a while to crack." He looked to Dean. During those long stakeouts in the car he'd gotten to know Dean well too. "Didn't know he had a sister." The observation was delivered with a mild detachment, as if unimportant. But Dean knew him well enough that the simple fact James commented on it at all was telling.

Dean shrugged. "She was out of the life."

James looked back to Sam. "Doesn't look like you're out anymore."

Sam gave him a flinty stare. "Just helping track down John."

James took the hint to leave it alone and changed the subject. But a slight narrowing of his eyes gave away that he'd stowed away Sam's use of John's given name. "As long as you're here, you mind taking over? I've got leads to run down on other cases. This is putting me way behind."

Dean shook his head and saw Sam do the same.

"We're on the clock. He only gets me through Thanksgiving, then I'm back out," she explained.

James nodded. Dean could almost see the gears turning. James was looking for an angle. "How's the search going?" he asked.

Dean grunted in disgust. It was the crux of their problem. They were here because they were out of ideas. Sam had called John's friends on the drive to the city. Either they legitimately didn't know anything or, more likely, they weren't talking.

Next Sam set up a search area based on proximity to the safe house. John would have set up his own as a back up before starting the job. It'd be far enough away to lose a tail, but close enough to slip to in an emergency. It wasn't that he didn't trust the government to set up a proper hidey-hole, he just didn't trust them to do it as well as he could. If he had to use his, he'd set up another as back up. John always had an emergency plan.

Their best chance had been that John used a motel. It was the easiest set up for such a short job. So they checked all the motels John was likely to frequent within the parameters. They came up dry. It could be that the attendants didn't recognize him from their description or that someone else had been on duty when he checked in. Or, just like the purchase of the car in Adel, John could have done something else. Expanding the search to include all the options John could use bordered on the impossible.

Over the years, their dad had set them up in foreclosed houses, abandoned buildings, office space, one week apartment rentals, and houses whose owners were temporarily out of town. One time he even managed to swing a house swap. Where he put up the other family, Dean never found out. Point was, the man was resourceful.

"That good, huh?" James asked. It took Dean a second to figure out James was making a sarcastic reference to their search, not John's skills.

"Pretty much, yeah," Dean answered.

"How about this, you take the job and on top of paying you, I give you unfettered, unrestricted, unsupervised access to all my sources while you're here. That should make it worth a couple days, right? Only one of you needs to be in the room to watch Cream-puff over there. That person can search through the databases while the other does the leg work."

Dean looked to Sam. It was a sweet offer. With James's clearance they could get into all kinds of trouble.

"Trial won't go into Thanksgiving. No way the jury stays into the holiday," he added. "Mother Theresa could be on trial and they'd return a guilty verdict if it'd get them back to their families faster."

Sam held Dean's eye. She had no reason to know what James was offering. "What kind of access are we talking about?" she asked.

"The kind that could help us find Dad," Dean replied. It was all the answer she needed. She gave him a little nod. Dean looked to James. "Deal."

"Fantastic!" James' whole face lit up. He grabbed his coat. "Don't forget to feed and water the witness," he said over his shoulder as he headed out and shut the door behind him.

"Uhhh..." Sam's brow furrowed. "Didn't he forget something?" she asked.

"Nope." Dean pointed to the laptop on the table. "Fifty bucks says he still uses the same password as last year." Dean flipped the lid and waited for it to wake up.

"How is this going to help us? We don't even know the model of car he's driving. It's not like we can just run a program to identify the car. And we don't have anything to run through facial recognition."

"Geez, Debbie-Downer. Look on the bright side. It's better than scouring the entire city in the car. We'll find something. We always do."


	7. Laid Bare

Except Dean was wrong. Sam had been hunched over the computer so long her back ached. And she was used to being hunched over a computer for long stretches. She straightened, trying to ease the big, long cramp that ran from her shoulders to her tailbone.

The door rattled, then opened to admit Dean. He looked worse for wear. He came back to the motel to shave, shower, and eat. He only did that much because he couldn't afford to scare off potential witnesses by looking like some rugged backwoods logger. He hit every gas station, restaurant, bar, or liquor store they thought John was even remotely likely to visit. Thanks to Sam, this time he even had a picture to show around.

Sam had managed to pull a photo from John's military days. The file was classified and James didn't have the clearance to view it, let alone download stuff from it. But it got her close enough so she could finagle her way through the last few layers. The shot was from before either she or Dean were born, but that barely slowed her down. She found aging software that got her close enough to run a search. She targeted camera feeds from in and around grocery stores and convenience stores then sent Dean after any leads. John had to eat and if he wasn't showing up at restaurants, this was the next best thing.

Dean grunted a hello and headed straight for the bed. Neither of them had slept much the past few days. They were well into the dulled wits stage, but they didn't have time to stop for more than a few power naps here and there. The only person that was sprightly, spry, and well rested was Sleet. Which wasn't earning him any brownie points with either Rigby.

Sam turned back to the computer. After days of concerted, organized effort they had a big, steaming pile of nothing.

The motel phone rang. The sudden sound jangled against Sam's nerves. Dean jerked on the bed, like he'd just been woken by the world's most annoying alarm clock. Sleet paced the room nervously. They were expecting the results of the trial. If James was right about the jury, today was the day they'd make a decision.

Sam picked the receiver off the cradle. This motel was so low rent that the phone actually had a rotary dial, and not for the vintage appeal. She didn't really want to put the yellowing plastic to her ear, but she did anyway.

"Guilty," came the voice on the other end of the line. Even knowing who to expect, it took Sam's sleep deprived brain a minute to identify James' voice. "I'll be there shortly." The line clicked. No one could accuse him of being anything but succinct.

"Well?" Sleet demanded. His future depended on the verdict. If they found the defendant innocent Sleet's life was probably forfeit, regardless of whether he stayed in the city or went into hiding. The people he testified against weren't the kind to forgive or forget.

Sleet's voice was all bravado, but his body gave him away. His hands were tucked in close to his body, one trapped under an elbow against his rib cage, the other pressed to his lips. He was all twitchy nervousness. But then, he'd been nothing but twitchy since they met him. Sam took her time hanging up, letting the pain in the ass sweat it out for a few moments longer.

"Guilty," she finally answered.

Sleet gave a relieved sigh. She didn't realize just how tight his shoulders were until he relaxed. The result was almost comically boneless.

Dean scoffed. "Good. Now you can go back to shooting, snorting, or swallowing whatever anyone hands you."

"That's it!" Sleet pivoted on a dime, lunging for Dean's supine form. "You motherfucker!"

Sam reached out and caught his collar as he passed, effectively clotheslining him. The strangled sound he made was really quite entertaining, like something from a cartoon. She didn't let it distract her though and deposited Sleet rather forcefully in the chair she'd just vacated. His momentum nearly carried him off the other side. If he knew what was good for him, he'd stay there. But Sleet's survival skills weren't very well honed, so she didn't count on it.

She turned just in time to intercept Dean. She knew he'd been fully awake and off the bed the instant the first word left Sleet's mouth. Dean got grumpy when he was tired. And when Dean was grumpy he tended to get into fist fights.

"I know what you did," Dean accused. He didn't fight Sam, just pushed as if he didn't realize she was in his way. "We may be liars and traitors, but you never give up family."

She heard Sleet rise, obviously having recovered from her rough treatment. She pushed against Dean, trying to gain more space between the two men. If they were set on their little pissing contest, there wasn't enough of her to go around to stop them.

"I've seen what you think of family." Sam could hear the leer in Sleet's voice. She braced herself. Dean was hot enough that just about everyone found him attractive, whether they wanted to or not. In turn, they projected their lust onto him. "You look at your dad the same way you look at your sister?"

Sam was tempted to let Dean go. The little bastard could use a lesson. But she knew that was the fatigue talking. Besides, Sleet wouldn't learn shit from a beating. Especially one as thorough as Dean would deliver.

It wasn't the first time people misinterpreted their relationship, and she was sure it wouldn't be the last. Dean, however, seemed to be taking this one personally. He wasn't just trying to push past her anymore, he was actively trying to remove her. It took all her attention to contain him. Fortunately, having said his piece, Sleet appeared perfectly happy to sit back and watch the fireworks.

The asshole. She should deck him herself. Her resolve wavered and in a moment of terrible decision making, compounded by fatigue addled inhibitions, Dean slipped from her grip.

Dean's thinking was just as compromised as hers though. Instead of going after Sleet with any kind of technique, he threw a wild haymaker. The blow was more appropriate for a frat brother in a bar fight than her militant trained brother going after a junkie.

Sam's good sense kicked back in almost immediately. She landed on Dean just after his punch landed on Sleet. Sam's weight bore the three of them to the ground in a heap. She tangled her limbs with Dean's and managed to latch onto him from behind. Her arms jammed him up and he was reduced to flailing ineffectually.

Sleet managed to separate himself, delivering a kick to Dean's ribs as he stood.

"Hey!" Sam shouted over Dean's cursing. "Stop that or I'll let him go."

Sleet retreated. Sam hung on. They were both mostly on their sides and her left arm was trapped under Dean's body. Her elbow knocked into the floor every time he moved. The thin carpet did little to soften the hard concrete beneath. She didn't even want to think about how grody the carpet itself was.

"Dean," she gritted out. Dean's thrashing continued unabated. She wasn't even sure he remembered why he was struggling other than he was fighting mad and she was there to fight.

"Dean!" She was pissed. They got the call, all they had to do was co-exist in peace until James showed up. But could Dean be counted on for that? No. After leaving her to deal with the twink by herself for three days, Dean couldn't even make it thirty minutes.

Dean's head flew back wildly. Her mouth flooded with the tangy taste of blood as her lip took brunt of the blow. "God dammit!" She used his own force against him, rolling him onto his face with her on top. She held him captive there, blood dripping down her face and onto his cheek.

It took Dean a few seconds to realize he was being bled on, but eventually he noticed. He stopped struggling. Shifting his weight to one side, he strained to look at her. "You're bleeding," he said.

"No thanks to your fat head," she retorted.

Dean scowled at her as best he could in his current position. "Let me up."

Sam shook her head. He seemed to be back in control, but she wasn't about to put up with his short fuse and Sleet spitting sparks. "You need to go cool off."

She stood, dragging him up with her. Using little jerks and shoves to keep him off balance and moving, she herded him toward the door. If Dean didn't want to be manhandled, she didn't stand a chance. He was better than her, always had been. He probably always would be. The boy was good. Really good. Fortunately, he seemed to forget that when they got into these little slap fights and she could get away with pushing him around a little.

She snagged his jacket from the foot of the bed on their way past. The leather was smooth and heavy in her hand. She opened the door and slapped the jacked into his chest. "Make yourself useful and find us a place for the night," she said.

Dean stared up at her for less than a heartbeat. Then a contrite look stole across his face as his gaze fell on her lip. He reached out to touch the swollen gash. She jerked away from his hand, rejecting his touch as well as the apologetic look. Dean wasn't the only one that needed some time to cool off.

"Sammy." His eyes flicked up from her lip. "I'm sorry." Her view filled with green. His eyes were a pale green that tended toward yellow. Sometimes she'd swear those moss-green eyes were flecked with gold.

The intimate contact in that look sent a jolt through her. It felt like a firework exploding in the bottle instead of shooting into the sky, and she was the bottle. Every muscle in her body seized up with indecision. She wanted to reach out and touch him. To lean into him and fold herself against his body. She would have settled for staying caught in this intensely personal moment as everything they were was laid bare for the other to see. But she was afraid.

She was afraid he would turn away from her. That he would abandon her just as thoroughly as he had while she was at school. That upon discovering she was no better than the strangers that lusted after him, he would disown her just like John had.

She knew Dean felt the moment too. It was written all over his face. Gone was the anger and posturing, replaced by surprise and unease. She couldn't discern the underlying emotion, whether he knew she loved him in a way a sister never should or if he felt the heat between them too. She wanted so badly for him to reciprocate that she couldn't trust her judgment.

She gave him a push, sending him across the threshold, pretending nothing had happened. "Scrounge us up some grub while you're at it." She shut the door, blocking out his pretty, pretty face.

xXx

Dean wasn't sure what to make of the closed door. Things had changed so fast. In the last ten minutes he'd gone from nearly asleep, to mad enough to beat the shit out of that little tweaker, to feeling guilty for making Sam bleed, to whatever the Hell had just happened.

When Sam had looked at him and their eyes met, his stomach dropped out. It was like a red-hot wire connected them. He was surprised she hadn't been able to reach into his brain and come away knowing John wasn't her dad, as well as every other secret he'd tried to hide from her over the years.

Fortunately, he'd learned early in his career of lying that people couldn't read thoughts. Not only that, but if he stuck to his story and exuded enough confidence, people would even question things they _knew_ to be true. Once he talked a kid into believing the sky was green.

Sam had a better bullshit detector than most, but even she wasn't telepathic. She had to know something was up, but there was no way she could know what it was until he told her.

The brisk November air penetrated his thoughts. He shrugged on his jacket and headed for the car. The engine turned over and the car roared to life. He headed for a neighborhood he'd heard was mostly foreclosures. He could check for evidence of John while looking for a place for them to crash. If he was lucky, he could score a place that still had power.

When he entered the neighborhood, the rumble of the engine bounced off the flat faces of the deserted houses. The foreclosure signs speared into the manicured lawns was a dead giveaway, but there were other clues that told an even bleaker story. The lack of cars parked on the street and in driveways was an indicator the community was empty. However, the houses were big enough to have attached two car garages, so it wasn't a sure sign. The real kicker was the lack of lights. It was dinner hour in America and at this time of year, the sun had already set. This was the time of day when most people were in their houses, either eating, watching TV, or both. Dean would bet more of the houses were empty than even the foreclosure signs indicated.

He gunned the engine for the pure pleasure of listening to it echo back to him in the relative silence. There weren't enough people left here to complain. He got to work trying to figure out which house would be the most comfortable and the best stocked. This used to be a hoity-toity kind of neighborhood that drew yuppies. The kind of neighborhood with brick facades and street names like Clubhouse St and Augusta Blvd. When the economy tanked in 2008, a lot of those yuppies hit hard times. Now, years later, they'd lost the houses they'd over financed.

He was so engrossed in his search he nearly missed the Buick. He was dead level with it, practically looking up the tailpipe, before he realized what he was looking at.

He stopped, right there in the middle of the street, and got out. He was blocking the drive, but it wasn't like the ghost of Thanksgiving future was going to come out and protest. Using his phone as a flashlight, he checked the plate. It matched one of the three John took with him.


	8. Dark Nights and Vacant Houses

A quick appraisal of the house showed nothing but dark windows. Dean returned to the Impala. He fished out a flashlight, a knife, and two guns from the trunk. The first gun, a stainless steel Taurus PT92 9mm pistol with a seventeen round magazine, went in his jacket pocket with the safety on. The knife he clipped to his jeans. The second gun, his favorite, a nickle-plated .45 Colt M1911 with a seven round magazine, engraved slide and ivory grips, he kept in his hand along with the flashlight.

He left the flashlight off as he approached the house. He didn't want to ruin his night vision or broadcast his location. He gave the Buick a quick once over as he passed. He couldn't see anything through the windows but a couple fast food wrappers and a map. To get more detail he'd have to jimmy the lock. He wanted to clear the house first to make sure there were no surprises waiting for him. If John was dead in the trunk, he'd just have to stay that way a little longer.

Dean didn't go straight for the front door. Instead he circled around the side. The property was only around a quarter acre, most of which was taken up by the house, so he didn't have much a walk. The neighboring houses were too close for his comfort. Even assuming there was no one living there, teenagers could very well be using the spot for making out or other mischief. Dean had gotten into more than his fair share of trouble during his teens. Not that anyone had been able to enforce his punishment with John out of the picture on a regular basis.

The smart thing would be to call Sam and tell her what he found. If anything happened, at least she'd know where he was. But if their dad was inside, Dean wanted to know now. Besides which, Sam would insist he come get her and they go in together. She'd been out of the life too long for him to be comfortable with her as backup.

As he circled the house, Dean peaked in the windows and checked the ground for signs of recent occupation. Cigarette butts and broken branches had given away more than one lurker. He also checked the electric meter box. The dial was spinning slowly. He guessed it was enough to run basic appliances like the refrigerator. Either no one was inside, or they'd heard him come up and turned off everything that used power. On the plus side, if the house was clear, they could bunk here for the night and turn on the heat.

Finding nothing after a full circuit of the house, Dean returned to the back yard. He holstered his gun in the waistband at the small of his back and crossed the red brick patio. He tucked the flashlight under his arm and pulled out his lock pick set. One of his favorite things about not actually working for the government was that he didn't have to follow the same rules. He didn't need a warrant or probable cause to enter a house. Just a burning desire. Or mild curiosity. He also didn't have to fill out as much paperwork. He hated paperwork.

The right side of the double french doors swung open silently revealing a large kitchen. Dean tucked the lock picks into his jacket and pulled the gun back out. It was too dark in the house to wander around without light, so Dean turned on the flashlight. The sink held a single plate. Tiny crumbs cast pock-mark shadows on the formica countertop of the island as his light passed over it.

He continued past the island and discovered the pantry/laundry behind a set of some kind of slatted wooden doors. He should probably open the cabinets, but he wasn't feeling that patient. On top of which, the kind of people that would be hunting John generally wouldn't fit in that small a space. And if they'd cut John into pieces, they wouldn't be stuffing them into the cupboards of the house.

The kitchen opened into a carpeted area that Dean assumed people would use as a living room. He had to admit, clearing an empty house was way easier than clearing one full of stuff, fewer places to hide. The next room held the remnants of an office. Paper, pens, and a stapler littered the floor. A desk had been left behind with a printer on top. As he proceeded to another room, he marked the absence of any blood stains. He swallowed a curse as his foot slid sideways over a small protuberance. Plastic toys were in abundance though.

First floor clear, Dean made his way to the second. Upper stories were better positioned for hostages. It was harder for a passerby to see inside and window shades were in abundance.

The smaller bedrooms were littered with junk. The previous owners had apparently left in a hurry and not bothered to pack all those random things people tended to collect. He couldn't even identify half of the crap lying around. Easily identifiable in one room though was a twin bed. He silently called dibs even though Sam didn't know the place existed, let alone the sleeping arrangements.

He entered the master bedroom. A queen bed, complete with frame, dominated the room. Dean revised his claim. A queen was way better than some kid's twin.

There was a rolled up blanket at the end of an otherwise bare mattress. Around the side were John's bags. Dean cast around for anything suspicious, but there were still no signs of foul play. None of the debris on the floor was crushed, no damaged walls, no drops of blood staining the circle of his flashlight's beam.

He cleared the walk-in closet before approaching the bathroom. He could see an obnoxiously large bathtub through the open door. It was perfect for disposing of bodies. Clean up was much faster if you could get the victim somewhere that could be hosed down. Tubs were nice. Some killers preferred clear plastic, the victim could be wrapped in it for easy preparation and transportation. A tarp also worked well. Not that Dean did much wet work. It was just good to know what to look for when dealing with criminals who had a habit of turning on their associates.

The white beam of light bounced around the room at crazy angles, reflected in the mirrors on either side of the tub. Dean approached slowly, steeling himself for what he might find. A quick glance revealed no one waiting in the corners to jump him. He looked down into the tub. To his relief the only thing in the bottom was the white plastic of the tub and the metal drain stop.

One floor left to go. Dean had saved the basement for last because it was his least favorite. In his experience, all manner of unsavory things happened in basements. The most memorable recent experience involved the re-education of sex slaves in a human trafficking racket. That had been ugly enough for Dean to swear off sex for a full month. He was both glad that Sam had missed the incident, and sorely regretted her absence while dealing with the fallout.

She'd called less than two weeks after it happened. That was the only time he'd answered the phone. He hadn't said a word, just listened to her ramble and taken strength from the fact that she was safe and thriving at school.

Of course, there was also a memorable incident involving a stainless steel bowl, a blow torch, a rat, and a man's gut that Sam had been around for. He wouldn't be surprised if she still lost sleep over that one. He occasionally did, usually after going down dark stairways into unknown basements.

The stairs were carpeted and muffled the tread of his work boots. A banister rose as the wall separating the stairwell from the kitchen fell away. The enclosed corridor opened up to a large rec room. It was fully carpeted and gave off a cozy, albeit deserted, vibe.

Three doors opened off the main room. The first was a small bedroom. Dean was pretty sure there was a fire code that required a bedroom to have a secondary exit, like a window, so technically this would be listed as an office. But its true purpose was clear. Especially when paired with the bathroom behind door number two. The third door was just as anticlimactic as the first two. It held the water heater and fuse box.

Dean tucked the gun into his waistband with a relieved sigh. He blamed his nerves and rampant remembrances of dead bodies on the lack of backup. His dad usually had his back in situations like this. Although, most of the time when he walked into danger he was already in the company of the people that would kill him.

He headed back to the master bedroom to collect his dad's things. Whatever happened to John, it looked like he left of his own accord. John was good. No way any but the best could nab him, let alone do it without leaving a trace. Which left John walking away. He'd only do that if he'd been made, but Dean couldn't think of anything they had going to warrant that. They'd gotten out of their last imbedded assignment a couple months ago and the driving gig was the next one they had lined up. Dean's crew didn't even know about John yet, let alone have a reason to go after him.

He dropped John's bag into the Impala's trunk and stuffed the knife and spare gun back into their compartments. He moved the Impala up next to the Buick before pulling a jim from the toolbox. A swift jerk on the jim and the Buick was unlocked.

The glove compartment held a small box of burner phones. The center console contained fake government and service ids. Under the passenger seat he found bullets and a roll of paper towels. The driver's side held a pry bar. The back was essentially empty. Everything was as expected.

He popped the trunk and headed back. In plain view were some basic tools and a car jack. Their full tool set stayed with the Impala, these were just emergency supplies. Under a black canvas, pushed up against the rear of the trunk, was the weapons cache. For all the world, it looked like John had just prepared for a day out on the job.

Before he could start looking for secret compartments, Sam called. He trapped the cell between his shoulder and ear as he continued rummaging through the car.

"Powder Puff has been released back into the wild," she said.

"Alright, yeah. I'll be there shortly." He gave up on the car and straightened. "Found a place to crash for the night."

"Great. Tell me it has beds."

Dean chuckled. He was looking forward to a full night in a bed just as much as she was. "It has beds. James have our money?" Large stacks of cash were another of his favorite things about not officially working for the government. Uncle Sam couldn't very well deposit money into a checking account for them without giving up the game. So the Rigbys got paid in cash. The drawback was that it could take the pencil pushers awhile to get them their money. Thus the dropbox in Lawrence.

"You planning on picking up girls tonight?" Sam asked. It sounded like she was trying for good natured ribbing, but her delivery fell flat.

"Just one, but we're related," he joked. He started pulling things from the Buick's trunk and transferring them to the Impala. He didn't want to leave anything behind, but he couldn't very well drive two cars at the same time.

"Relatives are the worst," she chuckled, sounding more normal and relaxed. "Definitely the most expensive."

"I'm gonna be a minute. I found a lead and need to clean up here." John's gear was well stowed, it wasn't going to take more than three loads to move everything in the trunk.

"Really?" Disbelief colored her voice. "Three days of hunting and you just stumble over something?"

"I found the car and safe house." Dean finished the third load and Sam still hadn't responded. "Sam?" he asked, pulling the phone from his ear to check that the call hadn't dropped.

"I take it he isn't there." She had that weird, unreadable tone she got sometimes.

Dean responded in the negative. Nineteen years with her and he still didn't know what that peculiar, blank tone meant. "Found his stuff though. Figure we spend the night here and give everything a thorough once over tomorrow."

"Yeah," she sighed, sounding more like herself. "Tomorrow. Let's get some sleep first."


	9. Gun Oil and Broken Toys

When Sam woke after a full night sleep, she felt good. The sunbeams streaming through the window had just turned from weak early morning light to the full light of day and gave off an air of promise. Her optimism was dampened slightly when she found the mess Dean made of the house. He'd obviously decided to stay up after she crashed. Loose floorboards were pried up, furniture taken apart, air vents unscrewed.

She decided to take a run before tackling the wreckage of the house. It turned out to be a questionable decision. There was no running water, so no shower. By the time she discovered the shower situation, Dean was awake. Barely. But he perked up considerably after a coffee run.

Thirteen hours after her run, the endorphins had worn off and the salt dried on her skin had been enforced by the exertion of searching the house. She felt like a crusty mess. She reached around her side to scratch at a particularly itchy spot along her back where her bra rubbed. If only she didn't sweat so much.

The only way to keep track of what rooms were done was by putting them back together as they went. They'd found a few caches, but it was standard stuff – backup passports and emergency money mostly. A of couple weapons. Nothing that told them why John had disappeared or where he went.

Now they were situated in what was probably a living room. White Chinese takeout boxes stood sentinel on the counters of the adjacent kitchen. It was strange to return to the traditional Rigby Thanksgiving meal. Jess's parents were much better holiday chefs than some poor schmuck stuck in an industrial kitchen on a national holiday.

They'd turned the living room into something of a command room. Dean had dragged in a lawn chair from the back patio and had the guns spread out for cleaning. They were laid out with precision on a marble topped coffee table, which was heavy and looked more than a little pretentious. Sam didn't blame the prior owners for leaving it behind.

Sam turned her attention back to the map spread out before her. She'd cobbled together a table from a set of sawhorses and a slab of drywall they'd discovered in the garage. Even though the map was nearly the same size as the slab of drywall, it was probably the least precise one they had. It showed the entire lower forty-eight and was exactly what she needed.

"Dad's got storage lockers and stashes all over the U.S. It'll take forever to visit all of them," she said, studying the red Xs she'd placed to mark the ones they knew about. There weren't that many when it came down to it, less than a dozen. But they were scattered all over, from the Pacific Northwest to New Mexico, Florida to Pennsylvania, and everywhere in between. "Do you really think you'll find something?"

Dean glanced up from the gun slide in his hand. "It's a place to start. He's going to need something from one of those places. If I can find it, I'll at least know where he's been. And that he's alive."

Sam dropped her eyes back to the table. Dean knew she had to go back to school. She couldn't go with him on this wild goose chase. In addition to which, they probably didn't even know about another dozen stashes John had. "I could hit Cheyenne and Yuba City on the way back to school," she said. She fixed her eyes on the map. "And Modesto is within a day's drive of Stanford. I could check it out on the weekend."

The soft sound of cotton on metal stopped. She could almost feel the weight of Dean's eyes as she pretended to study the map. "Right," Dean finally said. "Go faster if we split up."

Sam nodded, eyes still fixed down but not seeing anything. "Carmel is only two to three hours from here. You could start there, then head east before doubling back along the southern route. That only leaves Longview as an outlier."

The rhythmic sound of cleaning started again. "So you're serious about going back to school." His voice was uncharacteristically devoid of emotion. Dean was usually an open book, a dangerous trait for someone whose livelihood was lying to murders and thieves.

Sam hazarded a glance at him. He was studiously avoiding her gaze. "I told you I was going to finish the semester."

Dean nodded absently. "Even though Dad's missing."

Sam took a deep breath. "Dad kicked me out. He doesn't want to see me."

Dean slammed the slide down on the table. "Dad's missing!"

"Missing? Or hiding? We haven't found any indication of foul play. Seems to me he doesn't want to see either of us at the moment."

Dean stood. His breath came heavy and fast. His fists were clenched at his sides. The cleaning rags draped across his leg, clung to his jeans gamely, then fluttered to the floor. "Something's wrong," Dean said. "Dad needs us. I know it."

Sam held up her hands in surrender. She didn't want to spend their last few hours together fighting. "Let me finish finals. It's only a few weeks. Then I'll help you look."

"For how long?" Dean challenged.

Sam shrugged. "How long before you admit Dad doesn't want to be found?"

Dean flushed and looked away. His breathing slowed and he sat back down. After a moment he snatched the rags from the floor and went back to cleaning the guns. Sam watched him shove a rod angrily down the barrel of a pistol. She sighed and moved to the coffee table. She settled on the floor and picked up the Taurus. It came apart in her hands as easily as the Beretta she kept in her apartment.

Dean handed her a rag and a bottle of gun oil. They went about their task in silence.

xXx

Sam woke in an instant. She was as alert as if she'd never lain down. Her skin shimmered with a cold sweat and her heart pounded in her chest. She reached up and wiped away the tear trails running down her temple and into her hair.

She'd had the nightmare again. It had plagued her for the last three years. It could be the same one over and over or it could be a new one every time. Like the night terrors of a small child, she couldn't remember, so she couldn't say. Whatever it was, it sucked.

She'd been fine immediately after John kicked her out of their bent little family. She had a purpose and a goal. But when she arrived in Palo Alto, the full force of events hit her. She hadn't gotten a full night sleep for over two weeks. Every time she'd drift off, she'd wake again shivering and terrified. And every time, it felt like she'd lost her family all over again.

Waking alone didn't help. When she had nightmares as a kid, her brother and father were always right there. Their deep, steady breathing lulling her back to sleep. For particularly bad ones, she'd climb in with Dean and he'd soothe away the fear. But the safety blanket of their sturdy presence had been ripped away. There had been nothing in that Palo Alto motel but the sound of traffic passing.

She'd learned to live with it by chasing a life that should give her new nightmares. A life she nearly skipped out on Stanford to continue. But she'd dreamed of college too long to give it up without a whisper. So she settled into the dorm.

It was Jess who had helped her through the worst of it. It wasn't like Sam woke screaming or anything, concealing weakness was ingrained even into her subconscious. Jess just knew. She'd pulled Sam back from the edge of a lot of things over the years. Most of those things were more destructive than hazily remembered dreams, but none more important.

Sam gave up on the bed. Sleep was a lost cause at this point.

She wandered through the house. People left the strangest things when they lost their homes. Once they'd found a 60" TV. That was back when the technology was new and John got enough off selling it to feed and house them for a month.

The figurines and legos embedded in the carpet were like little landmines that had to be negotiated. It wasn't too bad with her shoes on in the daylight, but barefoot in the dark was another matter. It was so desolate in the dead of the night, surrounded by the flotsam of some other family's life. She felt like a ghost trapped in limbo between what was and what had to be.

She found herself standing outside Dean's room. Either he'd left the door open or it was hung wrong and swung open in the hours since he retired. After the pitch black of the hallway, he was easily visible in the light from the street. He was fully clothed, wearing everything but his shoes.

Sam leaned against the door jam. She just stood there, drinking in the sight of him. Tomorrow morning they would go their separate ways and it would be like the last week had never happened. Her stomach flipped. The fear laced dream was still too near and it got hard to breathe.

She sank to her knees, resting her weight on her heels and her forehead against the door trim. The wood was cool under the flushed skin of her face and hands. She squeezed her eyes tight, tears leaking through her eyelids, leaving hot trails down her cheeks.

In the silence, Dean's breathing continued. It was a solid island in the crumbling mire of her nightmare tinged psyche. She focused on the sound and let it steady her. It could have lulled her into a dreamless sleep the way it had when she was a kid, but for the knowledge that in a few short hours it would be lost to her.

She stayed until daybreak. She sat with her back against the wall of his bedroom, listening to him breathe and staring at the opposite side of the hall. When the shadows turned from deep black to hazy gray she snuck back to her room.


	10. Whiskey Soaked Memories

Sam looked terrible in the morning and Dean didn't hesitate to say so. She glared at him peevishly as he dumped the last of his gear in the Impala. The effect was somewhat dampened by her heavy-lidded, red-rimmed eyes.

"You sleep at all last night?" he asked.

She shrugged. "I had some school work to catch up on."

She was obviously lying, she had the same tells as when she was five. But for the life of him he couldn't guess what she'd been doing. He could have sworn she'd spent the night smoking pot, but the tell-tale smell was wholly absent.

They stood next to the cars, fiddling with keys and generally loitering. She seemed as reluctant to leave as he was to let her go.

"Wanna grab some breakfast? I heard about a place with a waitress that dresses like a hippy. Head wreath and all."

"Head wreath? You mean a flower crown?"

"Yeah, whatever," he agreed amicably, but he didn't even get a shadow of a smile for the suggestion. She just shook her head and looked at the tops of her boots.

"I need to get on the road if I'm going to have time to check out the lockers. It's thirty hours to Stanford and I can't do it in one shot like you." She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. "Well, good to see you. We should do this again sometime." She sounded like she was reading lines from a book. Or dialogue written for someone else. Maybe something from a sickeningly touching family scene in _Leave It To Beaver_ or _It's A Wonderful Life_.

"Sammy, get in the car," he said flatly.

She looked stricken, but it passed so fast he was left wondering if he'd imagined it. She nodded and turned to open the door of the Buick.

"No, Sammy." His voice was so gentle it was emasculating. But he couldn't help it. He didn't like seeing her like this.

He stepped forward and reached around her to push the door shut. His chest brushed against her back. She turned, half circled by his arm. Her wide green eyes looked down into his. They were the distinctive forest green of a classic Chevy muscle car. The sleek lines of her body and the power housed within reminded him of a 1970 LS6 Chevelle.

He almost took her face in his hands to kiss her.

Instead he took a deliberate step back."Get your shit and get in the car." He jerked his head at the Impala. "I'll head west and drop you off."

Her expression was guarded. "What about John?"

Dean shrugged. "He's Dad. If he can't last another couple days, there's nothing either of us could do to help him. Besides," he tossed her a rakish grin, "can't have my genius sister failing her senior finals."

Sam glanced dubiously at the Buick. It was almost like, now that he was threatening to spend more time with her, she wished she'd cut out faster.

"C'mon, Sammy, you drive now and you'll just slam into a telephone pole. Get in. You can study, or sleep, or do whatever you need to."

She popped the trunk and collected her things. She didn't have much, just an overnight bag and her computer. It was sobering to realize that when Dad kicked her out three years ago, she had even less.

It wasn't the enthusiastic response he could have hoped for, but he'd just bought himself another two days with her. Three if they slept in actual beds instead of the car. He climbed behind the wheel and turned the engine over. It rumbled to life, masking the sound of Sam shutting the passenger door.

She was asleep before he hit the highway. She was jammed against the door, head propped up on the window. It looked extremely uncomfortable, and he knew from experience that she'd wake up with a kink in her neck. But she was fast asleep and looked content enough for the moment.

Dean couldn't help but think about why his dad had started this whole mess. The reason they'd spent their lives running. John was uncharacteristically sober the night he'd shared the story. The sobriety hadn't lasted long. And after the truth was out, Dean hadn't stuck around to watch the sloppy aftermath.

The apartment they'd been staying in was a dilapidated ruin inhabited by those who couldn't afford much better than a cardboard box. Dean couldn't remember what job they were working or even what city they were in, but their neighbors were the noisy sort, in a battered-spouse kind of way. And it wasn't always clear who was the abuser and who the abused. Dean suspected it changed on a whim.

One night he had his feet kicked up on a crappy coffee table watching an ancient TV set with reception that cut in and out. Dean was pretty sure it only got a signal when the wind came from the east and the pollution thick enough to taste. Their neighbors picked up their usual routine. Then the wails of a baby mixed in with the shouting and muffled bangs. Dean's feet were off the table in an instant. He looked to his dad, maybe for direction, maybe for permission. In any case, wanting to interfere.

John was already out the door. His dad wasn't one to tolerate the mistreatment of children. He didn't even shut the door behind him, leaving Dean a clear path out into the soot stained hallway.

The woman was screaming manically. Dean entered to find her strategically placed in front of a crib, blocking her man from getting closer. From the entryway, Dean saw the man backhand his woman. She collapsed bonelessly to the ground. He bent, obviously intent on continuing the assault, probably too drugged up to realize she was already unconscious.

"Hey!" John shouted, distracting the man. As he turned, both Dean and John spotted the stub nosed revolver clutched in his hand.

John was close enough that he easily knocked it out of the man's hand and a quick punch knocked the other man senseless. Both parents lay in the shadow of the crib. The rise and fall of their chests attesting to the fact that both were still alive.

John stepped over their still bodies and peered into the crib. "Shhhh," he soothed, reaching in. When he straightened, he held the baby close to his heart. He swayed rhythmically. The little girl calmed slowly, then looked around with huge, tear swollen eyes. "There's a good girl." John stroked her dark curls. "She looks just like Sam the night your mom brought her home," he said.

Dean was struck by the memory of his dad rocking a small child this same way in the house he'd grown up in. The baby had to have been Sam, since the memory put John firmly in his sister's room. For Dean, it was a happy memory, one of the times he remembered feeling safe and loved.

Whatever his dad pulled from those times, it wasn't the same lighthearted contentment. Dean could see the pain in his face. The tightness at the corners of his eyes. The way his gaze fixated on the little girl and how a tear escaped when he closed his eyes to kiss her hair. Despite whatever pain it caused him, he refused to be parted from the child. He gently checked her for injuries, finding stray bruises, but nothing serious.

The police and EMTs arrived to deal with the parents. By the time they were hauled away in the back of a pair of cruisers, both were awake and the woman was screaming again. She was obviously high. The dad seemed to be trying to reign in his temper for the sake of their audience, but was having limited success.

It was clear, even to strangers, that John was holding it together for the baby. The EMTs let him hold her as they checked her over, but he was no relative, and inevitably the time came for them to leave. Once she was out of his grasp, he went straight for the whiskey.

Dean trailed him back into their one bedroom, which really wasn't much better than a studio apartment with a large closet. He entered to see John knocking back a double shot. He was using a tumbler glass, so it could have even been a triple.

"When Mary brought Sammy home, she was so skinny you'd think she hadn't been fed in days." Dean couldn't remember that far back. He'd only been four at the time. He couldn't even recall the death of his brother, let alone distinguish between the two baby Sams in his hazy childhood memories.

John tipped his head and let another round of the fiery liquor slid down his throat. "There was this burn mark." He waved vaguely to his side, indicating where the mark had been. "Had to be from a cigarette butt. So new it was still puckered and pink." Whiskey sloshed into the glass. John's hand shook on the bottle, rattling the lip against the rim. "At least it wasn't black and oozing. I don't think I could have taken that." He set the down the bottle, trading it for the glass.

John's head bowed under the weight of his memories, his strength drained by whatever truth he was trying to tell. He dropped the tumbler back onto the flimsy excuse of a table they used for meals. "Every time I dressed her, or bathed her, or changed her, there it was. Making my stomach turn." He pulled out a chair and dropped into it. He downed the amber liquid swiftly, as if trying to fortify himself against the decades old memory. "It was so big on her tiny body." John's voice, so soft it was nearly a whisper, broke on the last word.

Dean didn't move. He barely breathed. His dad hadn't talked about Sam since he'd kicked her out except for that one time. Whenever Dean tried to ask about it, John cut him off. He wouldn't even tolerate the suggestion they head for that side of the country. John had made his choice to cut ties and he wasn't to be dissuaded.

"I only ever wanted the best for you kids." The gaze he turned to Dean was pleading. "I wanted to be a better man for you. The kind of man you could look up to." John stopped talking and looked to the window. Dirty yellow light from the solitary functioning street lamp in the parking lot shone in the bare window to mingle with the equally dirty light of their apartment. If Dean didn't know better, he'd have though his dad was stalling.

"When I found out the body shop I was working for was chopping parts, I decided to do something about it. Turned out what I thought was a small time operation was part of a mob backed ring." He gave up on the glass and took a long pull straight from the bottle. "They came looking for me and found your mother." John turned away, his whole body slouching in on itself, chin drooping nearly to his chest. Before his dad could hide his face, Dean saw the tears staining his cheeks.

"They killed mom because of you," Dean said. He heard the words come out of his mouth, knew he'd said them. But he couldn't quite grasp what they meant. In all the years since they'd lost her, he'd never suspected his father had been responsible for her death.

John nodded and cleared his throat. "I took the two of you and ran."

John had been careless and Mary had paid the price. He and Sam had paid the price. Over and over, John's mistake had exacted its toll on all of them and shaped who they were.

Dean turned on his heel and walked out. John didn't try to stop him.

He almost left again. He was within a hair's breadth of hot-wiring the nearest car and lighting out for California. He could re-connect with Sam and maybe they could rebuild their lives into some semblance of normal. They could be like all those families Sam had grown up envying.

But it was too late for normal. So Dean found a shady bar and a fight he couldn't win. He didn't hold back, doing a fair amount of damage while still managing to get the shit beat out of him. Thoroughly trounced, Dean then made friends with his fellow brawlers and got everyone in the bar drunk by way of apology.

Dean pulled himself from his musing and looked to Sam in the passenger seat beside him. He wished he could tell her how much John loved her. How hard their dad had tried to protect them. The sacrifices he'd made and how hard he'd fought being dragged into an oblivion of self loathing to make sure they had a family. They could have easily ended up in foster care and never seen each other again. They could have ended up as the ones in jail instead of the ones putting others there.

Dean pulled out his sunglasses and settled in for a long drive.


	11. Holding Pattern

An extra sixty-three hours notwithstanding, Sam and Dean had to part sometime. And that time was now.

Dean pulled up in front of the apartment building. There was really nothing left to say. They'd already worked out that Sam would check the nearby locker. The search of the two on their way back just confirmed for Sam that nothing had changed since she left. She knew exactly what to expect from the next one and what might be missing. She was also pretty sure she knew what to expect when she called Dean to report her findings, the same thing she expected at the lockers – nothing.

She got out of the car and collected her things from the back. They exchanged a minimum of words. Then he was gone. The rumble of the stupidly powerful engine taking him back out of her life.

The tail lights disappeared around a corner. She turned away from the now empty street and entered the building. She trudged up the stairs knowing she'd seen the last of her brother for the foreseeable future. She might hear from him in another three years. Or she might never hear from him again.

He was headed up to talk to an old friend of John's, Rufus. He might get distracted in nearby Reno, but after that, trying to track him down would be like trying to follow the wind. She'd be able to find the wreckage of his passage now and again, maybe catch a feel for direction and speed, but she'd never get out in front.

A plate of cookies was laid out on the small kitchen table. The dead white of the ceramic contrasted sharply against the dark brown of the table. There were only four cookies laid out. Jess would have put the rest in the freezer to be doled out on rainy days. Propped against the artful arrangement was a note card stating "Welcome back." Sam smiled. At least someone was happy to have her around.

She dropped her gear by the door and snitched a cookie on her way to the bedroom. Jess was already asleep. Dean had cut it as close as he could while still keeping his promise to have her back on Sunday. In fact, the clock next to the bed read 12:20a, but it was ten minutes fast. He'd probably had her on the curb by midnight.

She turned on the shower and discarded her clothes on the floor. She climbed in, letting the hot water sluice over her skin. Dust and dried sweat streamed down the drain, taking with it the smell of leather and open roads. She stayed under the hot spray, but a chill crept into her bones and refused to thaw. She tried to wash thoughts of Dean away with the grime and dirt but only managed to scrub her skin pink. The smell of him disappeared under the onslaught of Jess's lavender scented body wash.

When she was done, she crawled into the queen size bed next to Jess. She was met by the aroma of drier sheets and Jess's shampoo. Jess was a bit of a bed hog at the best of times. She must have taken over the whole thing and used both pillows while Sam was gone.

Jess shifted in her sleep and threw a leg over Sam, her hand settling against Sam's shoulder. Sam smiled at her friend. It was things like this that made people think she and Jess were dating. They weren't totally wrong, she and Jess had dated for about a week freshman year. Jess had fancied herself in love and Sam wasn't opposed to giving it a go.

In the end, they'd discovered Sam's heart was already taken and, unfazed, Jess moved on to the next girl she was sure was The One. They hadn't let their fledgling sortie into physical intimacy ruin a perfectly good friendship and had been best friends ever since.

Jessica's girlfriends over the years had alternately been appalled, resigned, disapproving, and turned on by the arrangement. They either accepted it or they didn't. Sam tended to ignore them. If Jess ever brought home a woman worthy of her, Sam would happily take up residence on the couch. But she hadn't, so Sam didn't feel bad about being a contributing factor that drove off the losers that got dragged home.

The warmth of Jess's body slowly thawed the chill that the hot water hadn't touched. The friction of tires on pavement whooshed softly outside the window, headlights lighting up the plastic venetian blinds. Sam stared at the dark ceiling, taking in the feel of Jessica's skin and the sheets rising and falling with their breathing. The presence of a warm body next to her slowly worked its magic and eventually Sam slid into sleep.

When Sam woke in the morning, she was greeted by the aroma of coffee and the sound of something frying in a pan. She was surprised to find the space next to her empty. While Sam had no qualms about signing up for 8:00 am classes, Jess usually refused to get out of bed for anything starting before 10:00 am.

Sam wandered out of the bedroom. She stopped in the kitchen entryway and leaned against the doorjamb. Jess turned from the stove and dumped an omelet onto a plate. She looked up and caught sight of Sam. She smiled, then turned back to the counter for a bowl. From the bowl she produced fresh spinach, cherry tomatoes, cheese, and, from the smell of it, fresh basil. Creation complete, Jess pushed it toward Sam.

"What's the occasion?" Sam asked, shoving away from the door.

Jess shrugged. "How was your trip?"

Sam returned the shrug. "Dad's still missing. Regardless of whether Dean finds him or not, I'll probably never hear from either of them again." She pulled out a chair and sat. "Finals are coming up. But I have this amazing breakfast, so the morning is looking up," she finished with a flip tone and a bright smile.

Jess sat across from Sam. "Sam, you are one of the smartest people I've ever met, but sometimes you can be really dumb."

Sam frowned at her friend. Jess wasn't the empty pity type, so Sam hadn't expected to be babied. But this certainly wasn't the response she thought she'd get. "What are you talking about?"

"You obviously love that deranged brother of yours."

"He's my _brother_!" Sam flushed under the implication. Jess knew about Sam's feelings for her brother the same way she knew about Sam's nightmares. But she usually had the decency not to say anything about it.

"So?" Jessica snapped, sweeping aside Sam's embarrassment. "You don't have to sleep with him to love him. You obviously need him in your life." She paused, searching Sam's eyes. "And I think he needs you too."

Her delivery was straightforward and her tone candid. Some would call her blunt, which Sam usually liked.

"Go get him. Drag the stubborn bastard back into your life."

Sam looked away and shook her head. Jessica's turquoise eyes were hypnotic. If she kept meeting those blue-green depths, she'd end up agreeing. After all, Jess was only stating what Sam wanted most.

But if she went after him now she'd have nothing to show for it. She'd have put herself through interminable years without him for no reason whatsoever. If she gave up now, she may as well have crawled back to John before the first summer was up. She would be damned if she left Stanford without her degree.

She stood. "I have to get to class."

"Sam..." Jessica sounded repentant. "At least eat breakfast first."

Sam paused, her back to Jess and the table. She glanced back at the omelet. It smelled fantastic. She'd subsisted on nothing but takeout food for the past week and a half.

Jess reached out a hand to put a fork next to the plate. She'd sensed weakness and gone in for the kill. Sam sighed and sat back down.

Jess leaned forward on her elbows and propped her chin on her hands. "Why are you still here anyway?"

Sam pushed away from the table.

"No," Jess hastily backpedaled. She dropped her hands to the table, outstretched as if reaching out to stop Sam. "I mean, you take more credits than anybody. Why hasn't Stanford given you a degree and kicked you out?"

Sam relaxed. Jess had given up on the Dean argument. For now at least. "I need another Gen Ed to get my diploma," Sam said and took a bite of the omelette. It tasted just as fabulous as it smelled.

"A Gen Ed?"

Sam didn't bother responding verbally, she was too busy enjoying the combination of flavors melting in her mouth, she nodded.

"Why on earth haven't you just graduated and moved on?"

Sam looked back up. Jessica's perfectly formed eyebrows were raised and those stunning eyes wide with surprise. Her blond hair looked artfully mussed instead of like she just got out of bed. She was just as pretty as Dean, but in a way Sam appreciated aesthetically. She wasn't drawn to Jessica's beauty the way she was with Dean. If only it could be as simple with her brother.

"The scholarship is for four years. Why would I graduate early and leave my friends behind?"

Jess laid a hand over Sam's. "You can't hide here forever."


	12. Grace Period

Sam was still seething over that last comment an hour later in class. She wasn't _hiding_. She was living the dream. She was racking up the kinds of credits and honors that would get her a scholarship to law school. Becoming a lawyer was the only thing that made sense. She didn't want to be an itinerant drifter all her life. A career as a lawyer would give her the stability she craved and the kind of steady income she'd never known growing up. On top of which, having walked in, around, and through the justice system her whole life, she certainly knew enough about the law.

She tried to concentrate on the professor at the front of the lecture hall, but he was droning on in a monotone and she'd already finished the coursework for this class. It was actually pretty pointless for her to be stuck here. From the low attendance of her classmates, it was obvious most of them felt the same.

She wasn't completely finished with all of her classes, there was still the one final. As a senior in upper level courses, she didn't really have final exams. It was more like a mass collection of essays. Essays she'd finished in the Impala.

As for the remaining final, she could fail that thing pretty spectacularly and still pass the class. She needed about a 25% though, so she couldn't just skip out. In fact, that was the only class she needed to show up at for the rest of the semester. If not for that she could leave today.

Sam shifted impatiently in her seat. The chair creaked in protest under her, the padding unable to mitigate the restlessness of her six foot four frame. The next row up was also much too close for her long legs. She tried to wedge herself more comfortably between the solid wood at her back and the unyielding wood digging into her knees.

She accidentally kicked her messenger bag and it tipped over. Dean had given it to her by default. When he got his first paycheck, John decided they should celebrate by getting new clothes and shoes. The celebration part, for John at least, was that Dean now got to pay for all his own stuff. So they'd headed to some second hand store.

Sam found the bag stuffed in the corner of a bin. The leather was pretty beat up, not as beat up as it was now, but still nicely worn in. It was perfect for her notebooks and research. There were even individual slots for pens, pencils, and one that was perfectly sized for her graphing calculator.

She'd begged John to buy it. It was only $7, but she already had a perfectly serviceable army surplus bag. When John refused, Dean bought it for himself. Like he had any use for something designed to hold books.

He carried it around for about a week, using it to look smart and pick up college girls. Then it went by the wayside and Sam quietly appropriated it. Some days she thought he'd bought it for her and didn't want her to know he was being sweet. Other times, she knew he'd wanted to make her jealous.

She leaned over, flipped the flap open and rummaged through the bag. If she could talk the one professor into some kind of alternate testing arrangement, she might be able to catch up with Dean. She pulled out the syllabus for the course in question. The sudden flutter of activity drew a couple of indifferent glances. Even the professor at the front flicked his gaze to her. She briefly wondered if he was as bored as they were. When she produced a piece of paper, the watchers lost interest.

The other professor had office hours today. She hadn't had any one-on-one contact with him, but her grades spoke for themselves. If she pulled the family emergency excuse, she should be able to get some kind of concession. Her father was missing, surely that counted. And if not, the class wasn't required for her degree. Even so, the thought of an F on her transcript made her squirm.

Once the class situation was dealt with, she'd have to get to Rufus's. She and Jess shared an early 2000s Honda Civic. The best thing she could say about it was that ran. The rear passenger door was permanently locked, the driver's window crank was missing, and one of the headlights didn't always turn on no matter how often she fiddled with the wires. But the engine obstinately refused to die.

Sam wouldn't take the car and leave Jess without any kind of transportation. Especially when she planned to abandon it when she caught up with Dean. The train wasn't an option, it took way too long and cost just as much to fly. Flying would be fastest, but Rufus, the crotchety old bastard, wouldn't let her in the door, let alone tell her where her brother was, if she didn't bring a bribe. He was very particular about his bribe, and it wasn't the kind of thing she really wanted to take on a plane.

Hitchhiking would take too long. Both Greyhound and Megabus had cheap tickets. Not that money was an issue. They also ran multiple routes everyday. She could probably find something that would get her there by tomorrow morning. Then she'd just have to figure out how to get from Reno to Rufus's place in the middle of nowhere.

If she were Dean, she'd just hot-wire a car and 'borrow' it. Less than a week ago she'd pilfered government surveillance systems. In the last year, she'd masterminded the theft or sale of thousands of dollars of stolen goods. Of course, those had all been in pursuit of busts. But stealing a car for selfish reasons, even temporarily, made her uncomfortable. She huffed in exasperation at her own inconsistency.

Her nearest classmate gave her a sideways glance. She met his eyes. He winked then turned back to the professor.

There was one way to get a ride directly to Rufus's. It even came with the bribe built in. But it would cost time. She couldn't get a meet for at least twenty-four hours. Then it would take more time to put together a deal. But it would put her in the good graces of a powerful acquaintance-like-friend, and she had the feeling she would need every friend she had before the search for John was over.

The benefits of the last plan outweighed the risk of Dean getting a head start. After the job and all the driving, he'd need a minute to decompress. She should have at least a forty-eight hour grace period.

Plan set, Sam waited impatiently for the lecture to end so she could turn in her coursework.

xXx

Dean reached the outskirts of Reno in the dark hours of the night when late and early blend together and really depend more on perspective than on the actual time. He pulled over and grabbed a few hours of shuteye before rolling into town. He arrived just in time to watch a new wave of tourists descend on the slot machines.

He could have continued on and reached Rufus's house about the same time the seniors flocked to the hotel buffets' early bird special, but after Sugar and the long hours of driving, he needed to blow off steam. He deserved a little fun, family drama be damned.

Dean liked the noise and lights of the slots, but his game of choice was poker. He took his time choosing a table. He had every intention of leaving with more money than he walked in with. He wandered the casino, fleecing tourists for a few dollars here and there, enough to get him a small buy in. He didn't feel the least bit bad about taking their money. Tourists came to spend their money and he was here to help them accomplish that goal.

It was early evening before he found a table he liked and sat down to get to business. Four hours in and $600 up, the waitress leaned in to whisper in his ear. "I get off in 10."

Dean saluted her with his drink and gave her a wink. Her thin, red lips curved up at the corners, rightly taking his salute for acceptance. The woman had curves that would fill his hands nicely. A few hours between the sheets should help burn off the restless energy that had been building since he'd laid eyes on Sam again.

He finished out the hand, then went to cash in his chips. When the waitress appeared at his elbow, she didn't ask for a name and he didn't offer one.

Back at her place, Dean focused his full attention on her body. Her skin had the satiny softness of youth. Dean would bet anything she was under 21 and working under a false ID to get the better tips that came with serving alcohol. His calloused hands slid easily over that skin and he concentrated on using it to tease moans from her. Putting into practice the countless hours of experience he'd racked up with women from all over the country, Dean pushed away the past and lived in the moment.


	13. Meet the Boss

Sam showed up at the bar before Eddy Burke's crew arrived. Tuesday was Eddy's day to hold court at the bar - he held a weekly lunch and business meeting. Serving tables was the only way Sam could see him on such short notice.

It was the bar that had nearly cost her Stanford. When criminals needed a place to meet outside the city and away from the prying eyes of the FBI, ATF, sheriff, or whatever governmental agency that may have taken an interest, they met here. Since it was frequented by some of the most notorious criminals in San Francisco, Sam had plenty of opportunities to do real good with tangible results.

Sam had arranged some pretty spectacular busts from the bar. Of course, no one knew she was behind them, not even the people making the arrests. Revealing her identity would have ended her usefulness.

She'd also arranged some pretty impressive, and lucrative, jobs. After all, there was no getting in bed with criminals without committing crimes. Or literally getting into bed with them. But a girl had to have standards.

The scheduled waitress was happy to let Sam take over, relieved even. Eddy's boys were a handful and didn't always tip well. They tended to be stingy when business was bad. The woman was a single mom and Sam respected her tenacity. She'd make sure any tip the boys did leave would go to the other woman.

The crew was in fine spirits today. She had her work cut out for her as she delivered food and made sure glasses stayed full. As far as Sam was concerned, dodging hands purposefully headed for her rear was an art. While unwanted advances were avoided, she still had to flirt to earn a decent tip.

Eddy had an eclectic group. He'd risen through the ranks of the local Irish mafia and taken over a few years before Sam arrived in town. Since then, he'd absorbed an upstart black gang from the projects, subsumed a branch of a chino motorcycle gang, and staged a coup at a corrupt securities firm. As long as it made money, Eddy wanted a piece and didn't give a damn about the race, creed, or color of the people running it. Not that he was stupid enough to expect the diverse groups work together, he kept his various areas of interest separate. He was involved in running guns and drugs, stock schemes, blackmail, intimidation, money laundering, and credit card fraud, among others.

Of particular interest to Sam was his investment in bootlegging. Eddy had recently scored a contact in Vegas. Last weekend was supposed to be the first shipment. She hadn't heard anything during the meeting to indicate it went poorly. If Sam could get him a matched set, she was guaranteed his good will. Any large city like New York or Chicago was hard to break into, but gambling cities like Vegas and Reno were nearly impossible to crack.

After their regular business concluded, the crew huddled in a loose knot on the other side of the room. Most left after a few minutes of chitchat, but several stuck around. Those that stayed took turns speaking individually with Eddy.

The trick was to time it so that she finished clearing the tables as the last guy from the group ended his meeting. She puttered in the kitchen with the final set of dishes as the last ne'er-do-well aired his grievance. She headed back in with a wet rag and bottle of spray as soon as he stood to leave.

Eddy remained seated when she started wiping down the tables. She ignored him as he leaned back and made himself comfortable.

He waited until all of the crew had shuffled out the door. "Alright lass, what've you got for me?" He had the Irish lilt down pat. If it weren't for his plain features, deep set eyes and barrel chest he'd be fighting women off. As it was, between his accent and his money, he had no trouble finding women to warm his bed. He wasn't ugly by any stretch of the imagination, but he couldn't hold a candle to Dean. "You should be at that fancy school of yours, not dicing with the likes of me."

She raised her eyes from the table and gave him an assessing look. She was careful to keep her school life separate from her life at the bar. She always made sure she wasn't tailed home and never invited anyone from the bar back to the apartment.

He gave her a crooked smile. "Dinna think I knew about that did you? You underestimate me lassie." Eddy wasn't from the home country. His most recent ancestor born in Ireland was a great-grandfather. But Eddy loved his Irish heritage and played it to the hilt.

She returned the smile and leaned further down, giving him a good look down her shirt as she returned to wiping down the tables. "I'd never underestimate you, Eddy." She may not have given his people a chance to follow her home, but the campus was rich for scams. Eddy was sure to have people working the system over there. Any of them could have reported that his favorite waitress was attending classes.

She waited for his eyes to come back to her face. "Just didn't think you cared enough to find out."

"Oh, I care." His eyes slid suggestively back to her chest, but he was quick to give up the pretense and move on. "You going to keep fluffing me, or are we to get to business?"

Sam didn't even try to stop the smile that spread across her face. Porn references and personable, Eddy and Dean would get along famously if they ever met.

Eddy knew she was comfortable with sex workers and references to their trade. Despite Sam's successes in crime, it was hookers that had drawn Eddy's attention to her. She'd arranged unfortunate accidents for several men who mistreated prostitutes. Eddy found out and decided to have a sit down. She was costing him money, and if she was going to pimp, she owed him a percent.

Sam was no pimp. She wasn't there to help the hookers do business or hold their hand. What she did do was exact retribution against those who committed crimes against women. Eddy liked her style and found uses for her talents. Although, he still didn't approved of her lack of extortion of the girls.

Eddy gestured at a nearby chair. Sam settled into it.

"How's the bootlegging business?" she asked.

"Better than during Prohibition," he joked.

"A little birdy said you made a friend in Vegas."

Eddy's smile turned dangerous. Not many in the organization knew about that deal yet. The proverbial ink was still wet. "You been singing with the birds?" he asked.

Sam held up her hands in submission, shaking her head. She forced a chuckle, though being accused of working with the feds was no laughing matter. Especially when it was true. Him knowing about her attending university was still sitting uneasy with her. If he knew about that, he may know about other things he shouldn't. "No singing for me, Eddy. I'm just a good listener and your boys like to brag to pretty girls."

Eddy relaxed. Sam carefully hid her relief. "A rowdier bunch of Micks there never was," he bragged.

"With one friend in Vegas, I thought you might be interested in another. One farther north."

Eddy leaned forward interestedly. "How far north?"

"Not far. Reno."

Eddy's eyes lit up.

"My friends aren't as connected as yours, so I'm sure you won't run as much business as Vegas. But I know what you can do with a foot in the door." She let the sentence hang in the air.

Eddy settled back in his chair. He placed his hands over his stomach and interlaced his fingers. "What do you want?"

Sam swallowed her smile. She had him, she just had to pretend to work out a price. She shrugged nonchalantly. "Remember me in your Christmas card."

Eddy barked a laugh. "Half a percent on sales that go through your man," he offered.

It was a pitiful offer. She didn't think anyone would make real money on this deal, but she couldn't even pretend to consider his opening bid. "Ten percent," she countered. It was just as ridiculous a demand.

Eddy threw his head back and laughed. "If you were a lad you'd have a brass pair."

Sam hated sexism. In the world she'd grown up in, it ran rampant. She leaned forward, crossing her arms so they pushed her breasts together, making her B cup look more like a C. "I do have a brass pair." She smiled wolfishly.

Eddy respected brash confidence, but she was walking a fine line. While he appreciated bold moves, Eddy was intolerant of any actual or perceived disrespect.

"Five percent of the first shipment, two after that."

"And my friend's cut?"

Eddy's expression turned patronizing. "Let the men work that out."

Sam refrained from rolling her eyes. She hadn't specified the gender of her 'friend,' it would serve him right if it were a woman. But it was irrelevant. She was about to find out if she was going to get what she wanted.

"Window is only open 'til tomorrow," she said. "And the introduction has to be in person."

Eddy frowned. "In person sounds like a set up, little bird."

Sam shook her head. "Not you, Eddy," she clarified. "Me." He sure was paranoid. More so than usual. Sam wondered if something had happened while she was gone. "I go with your guy to Reno."

Eddy's lip curled on one side. "What's in Reno, Angel?" The nickname was from her work with the hookers. He called her the guardian angel of whores. It got shortened to angel and then stuck. "There a job you're not telling me about?" he asked. He waggled his eyebrows suggestively. "Perhaps the lad who spirited you away for more than a week?"

The smile froze on Sam's face. He'd been watching her. That was the only way for him to know about Dean. If he knew about Dean, did he know about Chicago?

"Here I thought you were happy with your hen, but you've found yourself a rooster," Eddy continued. "Don't my boys have bright enough tail feathers?"

Eddy couldn't know. There was no way someone had followed them to Chicago. Not through the middle of the night on those long, lonely stretches of interstate. Besides, if Eddy knew something he would have killed her, not listened to a business proposition.

"Do we have a deal?" Sam's voice was flat. She couldn't help it. She just hoped he attributed her reaction to him finding out about her 'rooster.' He didn't seem to know who Dean was, just that they'd disappeared together.

"Easy little bird. No need to ruffle your feathers." He was obviously enjoying the bird metaphor. A moment before, Sam found it amusing. Now it was irritating. "I'll help you get to your rooster. I've a small shipment that can be diverted. You leave tonight."

Sam nodded curtly. She'd been enjoying their verbal spar, but now she was ready to be done. She stood and turned to leave. Then she remembered there was one more thing she needed. "Eddy," she said. "Make sure the shipment has a case of Johnnie Walker Blue. Your man'll need it."

Eddy's chuckling followed her out. She was glad he found her request humorous. She'd just requested an entire case of a high end scotch and hinted that he'd be giving that particular case away for free. But showing up with a van full of liquor and a tag along, she was definitely going to need it.

On the drive home, Sam checked and rechecked that she didn't have a tail. She pulled several semi-legal maneuvers just to make sure. Despite what the movies depicted, losing a tail wasn't about speed. It was about driving like an idiot, making right turns from the left lane, running yellow lights, U-turns at busy intersections, or driving like you were lost. Some of the old guard mob guys told stories about exiting interstate off ramps, then backing up the ramp. She didn't go quite that far, but the only way she could still have a tail by the time she got back to the apartment was if the other guy could fly.

Despite all her precautions and the success of her meeting, she couldn't shake the feeling that Eddy knew something he shouldn't.


	14. Johnny Walker Blue

As Dean drove up the dirt packed drive in the pre-dawn darkness it almost felt like coming home. John and Rufus worked well together, so the Winchesters spent quite a bit of non-consecutive time in northern California throughout Sam and Dean's childhood. The rundown, weather-beaten shack illuminated by the headlights was just like he remembered. The green siding and red trim making him think of Christmas. The association was only because the colors were commercially linked with the holiday, there was nothing particularly festive about the house. In fact, the No Solicitors sign displayed prominently next to the door gave it an air exactly the opposite of festive.

Dean banged on the metal screen door. The sound bounced around the house and was followed by the sound of shuffling. A bad-tempered greeting soon followed, shouted through the closed door. Dean didn't bother replying, just held up the bottle of Johnny Walker Blue for the security camera's inspection.

The door popped open to reveal Rufus's smiling face, his teeth brilliantly white against his dark skin and black mustache. He didn't bother with words, just turned and headed for the kitchen.

Dean dropped into one of the chairs as Rufus grabbed glasses. Both the chairs and the tables looked like they'd been stolen from a shitty road side diner. Just what Dean was used to.

Rufus poured liberal helpings into the mismatched glasses. They saluted each other and drank.

"You hear from Dad?" Dean asked.

"Yep," Rufus answered.

"Wanna tell me what he had to say?"

"Nope." Rufus took another healthy swallow.

Dean gave a disgusted grunt and knocked back his drink. Rufus was tight lipped at the best of times, but Dean had hoped the scotch would lubricate the death grip he kept on information.

Dean held out his empty cup. Rufus refilled both their glasses.

After a few more swigs Dean asked, "Is he alive at least?"

Rufus set down his drink and looked Dean straight in the eye. "Look boy, your daddy is handling business. Old business. _Men's_ business. Go back to playing in the shallow end with your drug runners and witnesses."

Dean gave up and let the conversation drift to other topics. He'd gotten more than he'd hoped for. Now he had to figure out what 'old business' John was handling.

xXx

Dean's head had finally stopped pounding. The greasy food at Rufus's favorite nearby restaurant had started the improvement process. The diner was the only nearby restaurant, but that didn't change the fact that it was damn good food.

He'd tried pumping Rufus for information again when he'd woken up from his drunken stupor, but Rufus was obnoxiously alert and more spry than he had any right to be after drinking two thirds of a bottle of scotch. He'd invited Dean to shut up or leave. Dean had shut his mouth and gone back to nursing his hangover.

Now Dean stood in front of the country wide map. It was the same map Sam had spread before her on the slab of drywall less than a week ago. He had a decision to make. He'd told Sam that he'd head north to hit the locker in Washington state, but now he was thinking he'd rather head south.

He was currently as close to the Pacific-Northwest locker as he was going to get, but it was out of the way for everything else. If he swung south, he could wind his way through the South, up the East Coast and back to the northern Mid-West. That would get him all of his dad's lockers _except_ the one in Washington state.

They rarely went to the Pacific Northwest. They hadn't make any significant in-roads with the criminal element up there. There really wasn't enough activity to be worth their time when they already had connections in other major cities. He could afford to skip it. Or at least save it for last. It wasn't like Sam was going to follow him north.

He'd take US 395 south. That would keep him farther from Stanford. Keep him from being tempted to drop back in to argue with Sam again. From there he could hop back up to I-40 for a straight shot to Gallup, NM. It was tempting to detour to Las Vegas, but he'd already gotten his gambling fix.

He needed to decide soon. It was time to get on the road. It was the perfect time to leave - the evening traffic would have died down and he'd have the road mostly to himself. If he took the southern route, he'd get there just before the office opened in the morning. By putting his foot down, he could probably even hit two lockers in one day.

Dean was distracted by Rufus passing in the hallway. His stride was purposeful and he snagged a shotgun on his way to the door.

"Trouble?" Dean called after him.

A knock sounded at the front door.

"What else?" Rufus asked.

Dean followed him down the hall to the door. A monitor sat on a table against the wall. The feed from the security camera showed in black and white on the screen. A man stood calmly on the other side of the door. He was tall, probably about the same height as Dean, but narrower across the shoulders. He wore a dark turtle neck sweater and a peacoat.

"What?" Rufus called through the door.

"Rufus?" the man asked.

"And if I am?" He held the shot gun level with the other man's stomach.

Dean was glad he wasn't on the other side of the door and that he'd learned the secret to peaceful entry years ago.

"I was told you might be interested in a deal."

"Can't you read? Sign says no solicitors. But maybe you're too stupid to know a solicitor is someone that sells shit."

"I said deal, not sale."

Dean admired the other man's poise. He was holding up rather well to Rufus's badgering. Then again, he didn't know Rufus had a shotgun aimed at him.

"To make a deal you have to have something I want. And I don't want nothing, so you better be on your way."

The man appeared a little less sure of himself. He looked off to his right, almost like he was looking at someone for direction. "Sam sent me."

Dean's stomach flipped. Had to be from all the drinking he'd been doing.

Rufus looked at Dean, who just shrugged back. He couldn't imagine why Sam would send a messenger. She had both their numbers, it'd be easier to call. Unless she'd found something. Or something had happened.

"So?" Rufus responded.

"Look, man-" the guy started.

Rufus pulled the door open, the shotgun pointed at the intruder's chest. "Don't 'look, man' me. You're standing at my door, asking me for something. I'm not your man."

The man's pale blue eyes widened in surprise to be confronted by an irate black man. His red hair stood out sharply against his white skin, which paled further when he caught sight of the gun. He held up his hands in surrender. "Alright, well, before I go." He jerked his thumb toward a van parked about thirty feet up the drive. "I've got this case of scotch I'm trying to unload. Can you tell me if Johnny Walker is any good?"

Rufus's eyes followed the gesture, then tracked further left. "What did you do that you need a whole case to get in the door?"

"I brought you a present." It was Sam. Dean could never mistake that voice. "Do with it what you want. Just make sure it doesn't blow back on me."

A comment like that meant the present wasn't the case of scotch. Dean would bet his eyeteeth that the present was in fact the red-head and his van.

"I hear you have contacts in Reno," the red-head interjected.

"I'm retired," Rufus retorted. Dean had to be content with the limited view over Rufus's shoulder, and from that vantage, the door may as well still be shut.

"Mmmm," Sam commented. "How's that going for you?"

Rufus grunted.

Dean could hear the smile in Sam's voice. "You tired of the quiet life yet?"

Rufus huffed, but turned to the red-head. "Show me what you got, kid."

They headed for the van. The younger man looked at the shotgun still in Rufus's hand.

"You want to leave that in the house?" he asked.

Dean stepped through the door. Sam was leaning against the side of the house, just out of the camera's field of view. Her eyes were on him as soon as he appeared.

"I don't. That a problem?" Rufus fired back.

"Uh, no. It's fine." Their voices became quieter as they got farther from the house. The van wasn't far, but it was enough to mute conversation. The red-head obviously had no idea what Rufus was retired from. Dean was pretty sure the conversation would have gone much differently if he'd know Rufus was retired ATF.

Sam watched the two men bicker as they opened the rear doors and everything but their knees and feet disappeared from view. A smile played across her face, like she had a private joke that no one else understood.

He almost reached out to touch the smile lines at the corner of her eyes. He curbed the impulse. "What are you doing here Sam?"

Her attention turned from the van and settled on Dean. He was vividly reminded of the press of bodies and harsh breathing of the night before. Wondered what it would be like to have her be the one corralled under him instead of a woman who looked like her.

"Helping you find Dad." She tilted her head toward Rufus. "Did the cantankerous old man give you anything?"

Dean shook his head. "I'm heading out tonight." He knew she would never be the one under him. Not as long as she thought they were related. And if he told her the truth, she might up and leave forever. "You ready to go?"

Sam nodded. She looked relieved, as if she expected Dean to put up a fight for some reason. "Didn't even unpack my bag."

xXx

Dean was bored.

It was the middle of the night and there were still miles and miles to go. Just as planned, there was very little traffic due to the hour. But that also meant the scenery was limited to what was illuminated by the headlights.

Dean tried to entertain himself. Most interstates and highways had reflectors between the dashes separating lanes. He weaved between two lanes, alternately avoiding and hitting the reflectors. His success or failure was denoted by the muffled whump, whump of the tires over the small plastic bumps.

That killed all of five minutes.

"Hey, Sam," he said. She was passed out cold, wedged up against the passenger door. They'd had a short argument about where to go and in what order before they left the house, but they were in the car in short order. She'd stayed awake for a bit, but neither could think of anything to say and she'd drifted off in the silence. "Sam," he tried a little louder. Still no response.

He let the Impala drift onto the shoulder and over the rumble strip.

Sam jerked awake, arms braced against the car. After a brief glance at the road to assure herself they were fine, she eyed him sleepily. "You okay?" she asked, rubbing a hand over her face and eyes.

"I'm bored."

"Bored?" Sam repeated, obviously not yet fully awake.

"Yeah. Entertain me."

"Entertai-? Fuck you, Dean. I was _sleeping_." Sam turned her back on him and crammed her lanky frame back against the door.

"C'mon Sam. We've got a lot of catching up to do, so catch me up." He smacked her shoulder playfully with the back of his hand. "How about that hot roommate of yours? Huh? I noticed there was only one bed."

She turned her face to him just so she could give him the stink eye. "As my brother, that's none of your business."

"C'mon, Sammy. Give me something. That girl is smokin' hot. You into girls now?"

"What do you care?"

"Well for starters, if you do girls we're going to have to work out some kind of system for calling dibs." He waggled his eyebrows at her. "Can't be going after the same chicks, right?" On the other hand, if they liked the same girl and decided to _share_...

Sam rolled her eyes and laid her head back against the door.

"Fine." Dean gave up. It was harder to let go of the image of Sam with another girl. "What about your classes? You going to lose a semester or what?"

"No. I turned in my term papers and worked out an arrangement for the final."

"An arrangement, huh?" He was only teasing with his lewd tone, but apparently Sam didn't find it funny. She turned and smacked his chest. Her hand against the leather over his pec was louder than it was painful, but it got her point across.

"Family emergency you ass."

"Alright, alright. Geeze. So what was the 'arrangement'?"

"He gave me a verbal exam." She crossed her arms and settled back in the seat. She'd finally given up on getting back to sleep. Although, she apparently wasn't feeling very talkative because she just stared out the windshield.

"And?" Dean prompted.

"And what?"

"Did you pass?"

"Of course I passed."

Dean snorted. "Yes, of course. God forbid the great Sam Winchester fail anything."

"Go to Hell," she retorted.

"Go back to sleep."

Sam huffed. Even if she didn't actually go back to sleep, she gave the impression of trying. Dean was still bored.

xXx

San Bernardino was a bust. Just like Yuba City before it and Cheyenne before that.

"We shoulda just skipped Modesto and headed east," Dean said as he picked the lock.

"Then we'd miss Longview," Sam pointed out as she scanned the area for any prying eyes.

Their dad never bothered keeping the keys to the padlocks. Not for as long as she could remember anyway. He probably wouldn't be able to keep straight which key went to which lock. All they needed was the storage number, then they broke in. It was their stuff anyway.

Opening padlocks was how John originally taught her to pick a lock. He'd pulled the lock off the door, relocked it, then handed it to her with a pick set. They'd been her toys for the afternoon. Of course, Dean was the one that actually showed her what to do with them.

"You need help down there?" she asked. Padlocks were one of the easiest locks to pick. Dean was taking his time over something that was quite literally child's play.

"I got it," he answered testily. The lock clicked and they were in.

Each of John's hidey-holes was slightly different. For one, in more populated areas like this, John tended to disguise the contents. To the casual observer, this locker looked like it was filled with furniture, predominantly dressers and entertainment centers. Of course, if you actually opened any of the drawers the true nature was revealed.

Sam knew something was off as soon as she opened the first drawer. It was filled with guns, and there was an empty space where a sawed off should be.

"Dean, I got a missing shotgun," Sam said.

Dean cleared his throat guiltily. "That was me," he rumbled. "I stopped by before I picked you up."

"You already checked this one? Why didn't you say something?" she demanded. They'd just wasted over an hour diverting to Modesto. They'd run into a road closure and gotten stuck in the traffic jam resulting from the detour. Not to mention the time it would take to get back to I-5 for their continued trek north.

"I didn't check," he protested. "I was just grabbing supplies to replace what Dad took. I wasn't looking for signs he'd been here."

Sam let out a gusty sigh. He may not have been purposefully looking, but he'd have noticed if stuff was missing. "So what did you take? You know, so I can rule it out."

"The sawed off. Some med supplies and ammo. Batteries," he answered.

Sam dutifully returned to the search. She took the right side of the small space and Dean took the left. Several boxes of ammo were missing from the drawers under the guns, but that was now expected. She moved on to the next piece of furniture, a large entertainment center. The interior held custom built shelves. Right at eye level were several white bricks.

"Why is there coke in here?" she asked. Seeing as they didn't do any humidity or temperature control, they generally considered drugs a perishable item and didn't keep them in storage. A couple of times it would have been handy, but as long as you knew the right people or places, it wasn't that hard to get your hands on illegal drugs.

Dean peered over her shoulder. "Actually, I think that's heroin. It's from that job in San Jose." He went back to searching his side.

"From before..." She knew saying 'before Dad kicked me out' would start an argument. Dean would feel obliged to defend John. She couldn't bring herself to say 'before I left' because it had been so much more than that. So she just trailed off. Regardless, Dean knew exactly what she meant. One benefit of growing up in such close quarters, they could practically read each other's minds.

"Yeah. We had to leave pretty quick, so Dad was going to turn it in next time we were in the area. But we've spent most of our time east of the Rockies."

Sam stared at the brick. It was at least four years old. John had left it here. Let it sit just so he wouldn't have to get close to his daughter. The daughter he disowned.

There was no reason for him not to return. She had no way of knowing where they were. They could have strolled around campus with her none the wiser. But he detested her so much he couldn't even stand to be in the same time zone.

"If you're thinking of picking up the habit, I recommend starting with something fresher," Dean said drily.

Sam jerked back to herself. Dean was watching her with a puzzled frown, but still had that cocky playfulness about him.

"I'll deal with it after we find John. Won't be the first time I've disposed of narcotics." She closed the doors to the entertainment center and turned for the door. "Let's go." She headed out. "There's nothing here."


	15. Time To Have This Out, You and I

Dean followed Sam into the bar. It was quite a bit more upscale than he was used to. The felt on the pool tables appeared intact and the sticks didn't look too warped.

Sam picked a table in the alcove off the bar. Dean settled in across from her. The wall and ceiling of the alcove were all glass. Looked like a great place to study during the day with all the natural light. This was probably the type of place Sam was used to. The kind of place she hung out with her college friends. Maybe the kind of place she'd go with Jess on a date.

The tension between them was getting the better of him. He jacked off in the shower daily, sometimes more than once. He still found himself getting hard watching Sam walk into a convenience store for snacks while he filled the tank. He was hard so often it hurt.

He had to do something about it, and this stuffy little college bar was full of more than a few likely prospects.

They were there for nearly an hour before Sam left him alone long enough to work his magic. Not that he had to try all that hard. He'd long ago figured out the particular swagger that drew the attention of every woman in a room. He didn't even need to be standing, he could do it with a tilt of his head if he wanted. And tonight he wanted.

A woman drifted over. She looked enough like Sam that his hard on twitched interestedly. She was drunk enough to be brash, but not so far gone that she would have, as Sam put it, 'compromised cognitive abilities.' With this one, he would pretty much be guaranteed a creative, uninhibited, night in the sack.

By the time Sam came back into view from hitting the head, the woman was all but sitting in Dean's lap. Sam paused when she saw them, her expression impossible to read. Then she detoured to the bar. He felt a stab of disappointment, even though there was no reason to expect her to try, or even want, to interfere.

He collected the armful of brunette and headed for the door. The situation would obviously work out the way it always had, Dean would get the room and Sam would sleep in the car.

To his surprise, Sam beat them to the door. She shouldered the brunette away from Dean, standing menacingly between him and the other woman. "Get lost," she said. Dean still couldn't read her expression, and her voice gave away nothing but contempt.

The brunette looked to Dean. He shrugged. He had no idea what his sister was up to, but she was obviously spoiling for a fight. As hot as the idea of a girl fight was, Sam's skills and experience meant it would be over before it began and the other woman would just get hurt.

The woman flipped her hair indignantly, obviously pissed Dean would so easily give up the opportunity to sleep with her. She gave them both a glare before flouncing off.

"Some wingman you are," Dean griped, keeping his tone light. He was disappointed to have lost the brunette, but it would be easy enough to pick up another floozy after he figured out what had his sister's panties in a twist.

Sam grabbed him by the elbow and dragged him from the bar. Her lips were pursed and she didn't respond to his ribbing. Outside in the brisk December air, Dean tried to pull from her grip, but she clamped down tighter.

"Sam," he tried to defuse the situation with more humor. "You know I like it rough but-"

She jerked his arm, cutting him off and sending him careening into the brick wall of the bar's exterior. She crowded in close as his back bounced off the wall.

"No. You don't." She was so close he could feel the heat of her body, but she didn't touch him. "Most of the time you're gentle and sweet." She ran the back of her index finger along his cheek in a cruel parody of one of his moves. His attention narrowed to that single point of feather-light contact. "You think I spent so much time around you that I don't know at least that much?" She crowded closer, forcing him to press back into the bricks to avoid her. To avoid letting her know how turned on he was by her sheer proximity.

He laughed awkwardly. "You spy on me during sex, Sammy?" his voice was low and gravelly, a little breathy with desire.

"You leave girls behind you like a dog sheds fur in summer. Not all of them keep their lips closed as tight as when they're wrapped around your dick."

Dean grunted in frustration. He could tell her the truth here and now. Could tell her that they weren't related and that it was okay to act on the tension that was breaking them both. But a truth like that changed things. It warped reality. He was afraid the truth would finish what the tension hadn't. That it would drive her away once and for all.

She grabbed him by the elbow again and dragged him down the street. Their motel wasn't far, but Dean was so hard it made the walk seem interminable. Sam had the key out and the door open in a flash, as if she thought he would try to escape if she gave him a second.

Once inside, she released him. She continued on into the middle of the room, leaving Dean by the door. Almost like she was giving him the chance to slip away, to escape. He watched her back as she stood there, breathing. He turned and shut the door.

She was on him before he could even turn all the way back around. She let him finish his rotation, then her body pressed into his. There was no space between them now. No way she could miss his hard on this time.

"Time to have this out, you and I," she said.

"Sammy..." He had to force the word out. Even then it caught on his desire.

"Shut up," she snapped. "The only thing you're allowed to say is 'no.'" She studied him with those deep green eyes of hers. It felt like a full minute before he realized that she was waiting for something. She was waiting for him to say 'no.'

He shook his head. He wouldn't say it. Not if she wanted him as badly as he wanted her.

Still she hesitated. She dipped her head toward him, her breath tickling his skin as it passed in and out of her mouth. He couldn't take it anymore, he closed the last little space between them, brushing his lips across hers like he had all those years ago.

He deepened the kiss, locking his lips firmly on hers, leaving his tongue out of it. She moaned against him and her hesitancy melted like hamburger grease on a hot griddle.

Her tongue thrust into his mouth, not asking permission, simply taking liberties. Her hands pulled at his shirt, grabbing it by the hem and yanking it over his head. He barely had time to tilt his head back to get out of the collar.

Once his shirt was off she seemed to get a handle on herself. The pads of her fingers traced up his ribs, around to his back. She rested her forehead against his, panting heavily.

"Why'd you come for me?" she asked.

To hell with her chick-flick moments. He took her face in both his hands, letting his thumbs smooth away the tension like he had since they were kids. He looked into her eyes. She knew why he'd come for her, but fuck if he was going to say it.

He leaned in and kissed her, soft and gentle, using every trick he'd ever learned. He ran his tongue along her lips, seeking permission. She parted willingly for him. He licked slowly into her mouth, savoring the taste of her. There was the beer they'd drunk and whatever health food mumbo jumbo she'd had. But under that was pure Sam. And it was slick and it was hot, and it was everything that Dean had imagined and more.

She moaned into his mouth. It was so hot Dean had to pull back to breathe. He rested his forehead against hers. As they caught their breath, he caught the hem of her shirt and stripped it off, skin-the-cat style.

She popped the button of his jeans and slipped the zipper. She slid her hands under the waistband of his jeans and boxers, pulling him away from the door by grabbing his ass and pulling him tight to her body. She turned them and walked to the bed, Dean stumbling slightly as he shuffled backwards.

She stopped just shy of the edge. She worked her hands around his waist, slipping under the elastic and shimming the denim off his body. Dean tipped his head back as she freed him for the fabric and slipped it off. She helped him step free of his pants, giving his head a swift kiss as she stood back up.

Before he could reach for her, she gave him a shove. The bed caught the back of his knees and he landed hard on the bed.

Sam reached behind her and undid the clasp of her bra. She shrugged out of it, then started on her jeans and panties. Once naked, she leaned down and fished Dean's wallet from his pants. She pulled out a condom and stood.

She advanced on him like some kind of cat. A big, lethal cat. Her proximity forced him to scoot up the bed as she crawled up him on her hands and knees.

Her head tilted as she looked down at his cock. If she'd been sleeping with Jess, it may have been a while since she'd seen one. He was so hard it brushed his belly.

She took it in her hand and licked the tip. Dean let out a groan of appreciation. She swirled her tongue around the head, then took it in her mouth. Dean clamped a hand in her hair as she slicked up his dick with her mouth.

She licked it from the base to the head. Dean groaned again. She looked up at him through the curtain of her hair. "You like that?"

It took a moment for the words to penetrate the fog of lust. "I thought I was only allowed to say no?" He knew he had his rakish grin on. Heaven forbid his first time with Sammy be free of banter.

She abandoned his penis in favor of his mouth. Her kiss was sloppy and it was dirty, and it was such a fucking turn on as she rolled her hips into him.

She turned her head away to rip open the condom wrapper. She gripped him in one hand and rolled the condom on with the other. Her actions were smooth and easy, but once it was on she stopped, as if unsure what came next.

Dean pulled her to him and rolled so he was on top. He spread her legs and settled between them. He kissed her as his cock probed at her nether lips. She canted her hips and he felt himself start to slide into her. It was his turn to groan into her mouth.

He pushed. He felt resistance, which gave way suddenly. Sam gave a little grunt of pain.

Dean froze, his eyes flying open. "Are you okay?" he asked. Despite all his experience, he was afraid he'd hurt her.

She nodded, but he saw lines of pain at the corners of her eyes. "Can't pop the cherry without a little pain."

"Cherry?" Dean asked, thoroughly confused. "Wait." The most likely meaning finally sinking in. "You're a _virgin_?" He pulled back, careful not to move inside her. "I thought-"

Sam shook her head. "I told you we barely got far enough for the condom."

"You should have told me," he rumbled.

"_Dean_." Her hips started to undulate under him. "We can talk about that later." She was riding him from the bottom. Fuck. If she was this good as a virgin, she was going to be God Damn magic once she got a little practice.

He let her squirm under him. Let her body get used to being filled with dick for the first time. Once a girl had told Dean that her first lover had been ungentle. That when he thrust inside her it felt like she was being cleaved in two. That was the word she used – cleaved. Like a piece of meat at the butcher's. Amazing what girls told him when he just asked.

Dean didn't want Sam's first time to be like that. He wanted Sam's first time to be good. If he could, he would have spared her any pain. That was impossible, especially now that the deed was done. But he could make the rest of the experience worth it.

He moved with her. Small motions at first, getting almost imperceptibly bigger until his full length was sliding in and out of her. He looked down to where their bodies joined. Just as he suspected, his condom wrapped cock was red. But fuck did it make her slippery inside.

Her fingers dug into his arms and he looked back to her face. "More," she said.

His hips hitched in their rhythm. He crushed his mouth down on hers, pouring every dirty thought he'd ever had about the two of them into it. The sexual tension of the last few weeks drove his hips. His buttocks and abs thrusting him up into her.

The breath caught in her throat. Her hips rolling to meet his thrusts. He pushed up and supported himself on his hands. Sam tilted her head and arched her back. Their pace became frantic.

Dean steadied himself, then slipped his thumb down to her clit. She gasped when he first touched that sensitive node of flesh. Then she began to moan as he stroked it. Her rhythm fell apart under his ministrations.

He sat up and settled on his heels. He grasped her hips and pulled her back fully onto his cock. Her knees clamped around his ribcage, her feet on the crease between his hips and thighs, helping her roll against him. This position gave him better leverage to work on her clit.

As he stroked it, her thrusting because erratic, then stopped entirely. He kept rocking into her, buried to the hilt. She moaned long and low. Her back arched, her body strung as tight as a bow.

Suddenly she let out a cry. Then she was in his lap, her legs wrapped around his hips, her arms around his neck. She thrust, slow but insistent, through her orgasm.

She rest her head against his shoulder. He waited for her breathing to settle.

"You okay?" he asked when she leaned back to look at him. She nodded. "I'm going to finish," he told her. She cocked her head curiously, but nodded again.

He leaned forward, laying her back on the bed. Waiting for her to come down hadn't dimmed his enthusiasm at all. He thrust into her, fast and demanding. She grunted, but didn't seem to be in pain, so he kept going.

She started to roll her hips under him, which was fucking awesome. He braced himself on his hands again. His thrusts were long and hard. The cool of the air and the heat of her body flashing sensations against the slippery motion of moving in and out. A tingling gathered in his hamstrings and spread to his toes. Sam clenched her cunt around his dick and the tingling rushed from his cock, flooding out of him and pouring into the condom.

He rested his weight on his hands, looking down at his sister.

_His Sister. Fuck._

She didn't look ashamed. He saw no hint of guilt. She glowed with happiness. Content at having broken the tension instead of letting it break them. Or smug about crashing through a social norm. Really there was no knowing what went on in his sister's head.

Dean slipped out of her, settling on his side next to her. He stripped off the condom and flicked it in the trash.

Sam curled against him. "I should get cleaned up," she said contentedly.

Dean glanced down at the mess they'd made. He'd seen worse. He wrapped an arm around her and settled in. "Damage already done."

She sighed in agreement. She wasn't the squeamish sort. She'd helped them clean up after jobs gone wrong. This was nothing compared to internal organs.

He ran his hand absently along her abdomen. His fingers bumped over a scar. She certainly had enough. They both did. But there was something about this small circular patch that tugged at his memory.

This was the scar John had told him about. The one Sam came to them with, a burn from whoever had her before the Winchesters. Someone had snubbed out a lit cigarette on infant Sam's torso.

Dean watched his fingers trace mindlessly over the burn mark. "Sammy," he said softly.

"Mmmm?" she murmured.

Dean cleared his throat. Now wasn't the best time to tell her, but he had to get it out while he could. "We're not related." At least he hadn't used the news to sleep with her. "Not by blood."

Her eyes fluttered open. She looked so vulnerable in his arms.

"John and Mary had another son. He died as a baby. Mary showed up with you one day." He tapped the scar. "Whoever had you before that, did this."

Sam's eyes flicked down to his fingers. "That looks like a cigarette burn," she commented. Her contentment was gone, her expression now shuttered.

Dean nodded. "Dad-" He cleared his throat. "John said it was pretty clear you'd been abused."

Sam sat up. The impression of her body going cold along his skin.

"Sam..."

She shook her head and put up a hand to stop him. She scooted off the bed and just stood there.

He wanted to say something to make it right, but every option sounded hollow and empty. He sat up, but she backed away from him. She shook her head, holding out a hand to ward him off, even though he hadn't moved from the bed.

"I didn't know how-"

"Stop," she interrupted. She walked away and shut the bathroom door firmly behind her.

The silence roared around him.

The shower flicked on. Dean wasn't sure if that was a good sign or not. She could be trying to hide the sound of crying.

He got off the bed and started to clean up. He finished stripping the bed and was searching the room for clean sheets before he realized he was still stark naked. He pulled on a pair of jeans, then headed from the room. The lock on the linen closet was a joke, barely slowing him down. As he sorted through the fabric, it occurred to him that if Sam emerged from the bathroom right now, she'd find him gone.

He'd left more than one woman after sex, sneaking out the door while she slept or showered. Sometimes he only left to grab food and come back. Regardless of his intentions, they all reacted pretty much the same. It wasn't a reaction he wanted Sam to have.

He hurried back to the room. The shower was still running. Dean kicked himself for being stupid. It hadn't taken long to strip the bed and he'd only been gone for a moment. Of course she was still showering. If she was actually showering.

Dean put on the sheets then sat on the bed and waited.

The sound of splashing indicated she was at least in the shower. He didn't hear any muffled sobbing. The few times she'd done it over the years, she'd been pretty subtle, but he always knew. This time, he wasn't sure.

The water shut off. Dean stood and faced the door. He listened impatiently as she shuffled around the bathroom.

Finally, she emerged dressed in her under garments. She didn't look like she'd been crying. She looked shell shocked.

She turned haunted eyes to him. "I can't remember where all my scars come from," she said.

He moved toward her, but she stepped around him and sat on the bed. He knelt in front of her, laying his hands over hers. "Maybe I can help."

He started with her feet. There was a long, straight scar on the inside of her left foot. He traced it. "This was when we stayed with that lady with too many cats." He kissed the smooth, straight line. "You fell off your bike and the pedal jammed right into the meaty flesh."

"Fell? I think I remember being pushed."

Dean glanced up to see her watching him. He offered her a grin. "Yeah. Right. That neighbor kid who had a crush on you."

"Crush," she snorted. "We were too young for crushes. He was a bully."

Dean ran his thumb along her instep. "You bled like a stuck pig."

"Cat lady's upholstery was ruined on the way to the hospital."

Dean chuckled. Sam was still impassive, her expression blank and her tone bland. He worked his way up to her shins. "Here's where you cut yourself shaving." He kissed the marks. "You musta done it every single time for at least two years."

"Harder than it looks," she said dispassionately. "You should try it some time."

"You just need more patience." He walked his fingers up to her knees, which still bore raised pebble impressions.

"From where I wiped out on that gravel road," Sam offered.

Dean nodded, kissing each. "Maybe we shouldn't have let you ride a bike."

The corner of Sam's lip twitched. "I'd've liked to see you try to stop me."

Next was a thick jagged scar on her upper inner thigh.

"Skip that one," she said.

Dean ignored her, tracing the thickened skin. This one was from a job gone wrong. Sam had gone through a glass door while it was still shut. She had a myriad of small, thin, subtle discolorations on her forearms, but this was where the real damage had been done. Right over the artery. She'd almost bled out before he could get it under control.

He licked along the red, angry line. It was just one more mark on her skin now, but it had scared him to death when it happened. He kept kissing the skin of her inner thigh, sliding his fingers under the edge of her panties.

"You just cleaned up," she protested feebly.

Dean knew sex wouldn't fix anything, wouldn't change the truth she now knew. But it would make him feel more in control, reassure him that she was still here with him. That she hadn't, wouldn't, abandon him because he wasn't blood.

He pushed her back and climbed onto the bed next to her. She carded her fingers through his hair. "How long, Dean?" she asked.

He paused, letting his lips linger against her skin. Then he turned to look at the clock, purposefully misunderstanding her. "I'm not sure when we left the bar, but..."

"No, Dean." He could almost hear her roll her eyes. "How long have you known?"

Dean inhaled. He would much rather have debated how long they'd had sex. "Christmas the year you left."

Her hand dropped from his hair and she leaned back. "Three years?" she demanded.

Dean nodded. He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. "I went to Stanford to tell you."

She propped herself up on her elbow, her hair cascading over his forearm and bicep. It sent shivers along his skin as she shook her head. "I think I would have remembered something like that."

The paint on the ceiling was patterned into geometrically uniform fans. At every edge the ceiling ran into walls papered with large, faded blue paisley print. "I saw you with your friends. You were happy."

Her hand settled lightly in the center of his chest. He looked down at it. Her fingernails were already torn and jagged from being back in the life. She leaned in until he was forced to look at her.

"Is that why Jess thought you looked familiar?" she asked.

He nodded. She pursed her lips, then settled back against him, her head nestling on his shoulder.

"I should finish my degree," she mused. He turned his head and kissed her hair, hoping that wasn't her way of saying goodbye.


End file.
